


The Circus Boy

by TikiDoll



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Breathplay, Crossover, DC Comics References, Dry Humping, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Erotophonophilia, F/F, F/M, Gen, Killing, M/M, Marvel Cameos, Masochism, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, One-Sided Attraction, Reluctant Sadomasochist, Sadism, Sex Dreams, Sibling Rivalry, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Underage Masturbation, Unrequited Lust, autassassinophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2020-11-01 08:54:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 44,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20812421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TikiDoll/pseuds/TikiDoll
Summary: Bruce hadn't expected to be so personally affected by Jerome's death. He hadn't expected a lot of things to happen. But they did and as a general curiosity turns into a twisted obsession Bruce is left to pick up the pieces of his damaged psyche yet again. But is Jerome truly dead? Afterall, no one ever stays dead in Gotham. The ghost of him refuses to leave Bruce in peace. What is he to do when he is plagued with memories at inconvenient times. There is a burning covetousness taking hold of him now when there used to be fear and anger. Can he move on? Much worse, it seems Jerome has left Bruce with a constant reminder of his presence, his twin brother. When dreams turn into near real experiences the young hero is left to contemplate what's real and what is only in his imagination. In the shadows of the city, an immortal and a homicidal genius conspire. Ra's Al Ghul and Jeremiah  have plans for Bruce but so does...Jerome?





	1. Chapter 1

It was always gloomy here. It was as if a dark cloud had permanently settled over the city. Usually it only worsened as the seasons changed. The summers were an uninteresting mix of rain and high humidity, temporarily eased by the occasional appearance of the sun. Spring was bipolar, one moment it was rainy and cold and the next it was warm. As time passed that warmth would begin to cling to the citizens, draping each occupant in a thin film of slick perspiration that seemed omnipotent even in the coolest of artificial conditions. Today was no exception. April 4th had crept upon them, glazing the city in a balmy heat. The sun beat down against his face as he laid under the oak tree just a few steps shy of the pavilion. He sighed with closed eyes. 

Three days. It had been three days since the death of a few prominent political figures. Three days since the death of Jerome Valeska. He should have felt relief wash over him. He should have felt restored but somehow he didn't. Instead of moving forward his mind seemed to focus on that moment. He hadn't seen it, no. He was still in the midst of being evacuated. He had felt it though; which disturbed him even more. As though a cord had been cut and he had fallen. He was perpetually falling. A heaviness had settled over him. An inescapable weight so heavy that it was always at he forefront of his thoughts. He put on a show for those who knew him. He had learned how to behave to keep eyes away from his inner most machinations and thoughts. Simply put, he knew how to pretend to be okay. He had spent years perfecting his performance. Now it was flawless. So flawless that even Selina with all of her inept intuition was none the wiser. If this had been the center stage, Bruce would have walked away with an Oscar. 

He had learned how to change the tempo of his emotional and physical output to match any situation. He could cry when he needed to, he would confide in his friends and his guardian without revealing the deepest levels of his own suffering or his true feelings. He was able to present a version of himself, customized and handcrafted for each of the people that he met. No one got to see the real him. He had the tragedy that was his truth wrapped up in the illusion of the people that he pretended to be, effectively watery down the pain and trauma that he had experienced to assist those who cared about him most. In some way, he had hoped that someone could see through it. No one did. He had made himself too believable. His performances were too seamless, too effortlessly done to be questioned. 

He had told Alfred that he would be studying. It would be better to focus on his education instead of talking; instead of processing what had happened. Alfred had touched his shoulder and hugged him before sending him away. They had talked the night of and the day after it had all happened and Bruce had begun to feel fatigued. He would restore his facade before the butler could approach him again. 

He lay back against the tree as he examined the dilapidated greenhouse. It had been that way for almost as long as he could remember. Now, the extended tendrils of some unknown plant had wrapped around the interior, limiting his view of the inside. He had only been inside once, to his recollection, when he was much much younger. Someone had been holding his hand, leading him forward. Copper, that's what he remembered most. Small copper eyebrows against pallid skin. He saw flashes of fervidly growing Fire Crocosmia, and Starlette lilies along the walls, accented by striking blue Hydrangea bushes. His mother was sitting at her work table, arranging something but he couldn't remember what it was. The memory was a faded relic of something that was gone. Something that could never return. He knew this and in his own way he had made peace with it but sometimes such memories filled him with a profound sense of loss and regret. 

When they left him, they left him in good hands. However, those hands weren't bound to him by blood. As he had learned from hitting rock bottom. He knew that he had caused his butler's departure but apart of him had hoped that Alfred would have fought to stay by his side. Instead, after being fired, he had just left. Alfred came back, he reassured himself with a slight turn of his lips. But his departure had caused, unbeknownst to the butler, a moderate level of mistrust and insecurity about their relationship for Bruce. This too, he had managed to hide well enough but he knew that if he stepped too far out of line or allowed himself to fall again, he wouldn't have a guardian. He would be on his own and that thought frightened him more than any other. 

He was wealthy and good looking. His forefathers had worked tirelessly to ensure that he would never want for anything but that only applied to material goods. What was he to do with the hole that had opened up inside of him after the loss of his parents? How was he supposed to feel knowing that one of the few people that he considered to be family could only offer him condition love? He had died that night, he was convinced. The real him had been as fragile as glass and the second his mother and father fell to the ground he had shattered. What he was now was an amalgamation of all of those shards. In the wake of all that had occurred in his life, he had put himself back together, yes but all the pieces were mismatched and some had become misshaped during the process. He was a porcelain doll and at any minute a jagged edge would erupt from some hidden place and he would shatter again, leaving himself exposed and vulnerable. 

He pinched the bridge of his nose. He wanted to focus on something else so greatly that he found his thoughts wondering to what had happened on April Fool's Day, the day the whole city shook with fear and uncertainty. He had watched the news footage over and over again until the tapes began to skip. He had watched independent interviews and recorded statements given by eye witnesses. He had even stalked through the countless clips on social media but he found that he was no closer to understanding Jerome's reasoning for any of it as he had been the day he walked onto that stage and allowed a mentally unstable individual to place a bomb around his neck. Exhilaration. His mind supplied fervidly. He breathed through gritted teeth as he opened his eyes, and pulled himself up, brushing off his backside before grabbing the book that he had been reading. The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things. He traced the spine, allowing his fingertips to caress the title. He abruptly stopped. He raised his eyes towards the manor which loomed over the lands like a statue. His very own, Cristo Redentor. He stayed perfectly still, taking measured breaths as he waited. For any sign of a trespasser or intruder. He was far away from the manor and unarmed. He cursed his luck. It seemed that he was not worthy of a few moments to himself. He listened for the slightest sound of another person but the subtle symphony of nature was all that he heard. He turned towards the greenhouse absentmindedly, noticing the sliver of darkness that had been left exposed by the vines. He looked at it for a long time, waiting for the slightest tremor of the vines or the smallest retraction of light but nothing stirred. He could not see inside. A chill crept up his spine causing him to instinctively turn away. There was no one there, he reassured himself. With a sigh he began to walk back, placing the book behind the oak tree. He moved slowly as the feeling abated. 

He couldn't take literature of this nature into the mansion. He would be questioned severely. While his guardian had never explicitly stated as much, Bruce understood that this could and probably would be viewed as a worrying sign of rebellion. An act that they would have to discuss in detail and he was tired of talking. He was tired of the numbness that settled over him after each discussion which was flavored by the ever present yet seldom discussed cause of his current state, the death of his parents. As he made his way back up the hill, across the sprawling landscape, it began to rain; grey clouds blocking out the sun. 

If he had stayed just a little longer or looked just a little harder, he would have seen the shadows shift inside the modest arboretum. If he had turned around perhaps he would have caught the sigh of the vines slipping back into place. Instead he continued to walk, none the wiser. 

Somewhere across the city, trapped in a labyrinth of his own creation, a young genius began to spiral into madness. 

“She's late.” He said to himself as he paced under the dim lighting in his study. He cradled his glass of whiskey as he continued. His mind was reeling. Echo was never late. In all the years that she had been in under his employ she had never returned late much less without any sort of update or notice. He chuckled uncharacteristically before placing a hand over his mouth. He straightened his glass with that hand as his other hand began to shake. He had forgotten what he had been planning to do this day and as the evening hours crept upon him, he found himself no closer to the determination to complete his tasks than he had been when the day commenced. 

Jeremiah knew that he was changing but in what he could not truly fathom. He had received a gift from Wayne Enterprises. He pulled the tag out of his pocket as he halted. The typeface matched, he thought. Had they been working together? He questioned as a low chuckle bellowed from the deepest space of his subconscious. His heart rate increased as his stomach dropped. He knew that laugh, he had come to know it as though it were his own. The sound haunted his every moment. He had begun to hear it in his dreams and this made him feel sick. 

“No, Bruce is my friend.” Jeremiah said as he took a seat in front of his desk. The voice haunting him had begun to whisper to him. It was a low voice and the whisper was an unintelligible stream of words. Our only friend. The voice spoke and this time it was clear. He chuckled again as his eyes went wide. 

“But first, I'm going to drive you mad,” Jerome moved a few red strands from his ear as he hovered behind his twin. Jeremiah jumped from his seat, turning to face the direction of the sound only to find that there was no one there. “What's wrong brother dear? You don't look so well.” Jerome chuckled and for a moment Jeremiah saw him, not as he was postmortem, body pressed tightly against a nearly crushed vehicle, rigor mortis firming his joints. This specter was dressed the same but his face was free of scars. Jeremiah covered his mouth with both hands to suppress a scream. Jerome was wearing his face. His twin leaned casually against the surveillance monitors, shrouded in shadows. He smirked, his eyes holding a sinister savagery.

“You can't be here!” He yelled. He backed into the work desk in fear. “Y-you,” Before he could finish the familiar beep signaling the opening of the entry way caught him off guard. Echo walked in to the room, cheeks red and flushed. Her hair was disheveled. His eyes widened at her state. He pointed absentmindedly towards his brother. She followed his gaze before looking back at him with confusion. He turned his gaze towards the surveillance cameras. There was nothing there.


	2. PTSD: Memories of Murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce goes out to save people, per usual. But instead of a thrilling evening he gets much more than he bargained for. Two near geriatrics have a tender moment and somewhere across town, Ecco may lose a battle for her life. Before Lucifer fell he was God's most beautiful angel...

The night held an air of desolation. As if the festering illness of corruption was tangibly suffocating the city with it's vice-like grip. Bruce sighed as he observed the denizens who sought warmth around an oil drum fire. When he was young he had held tightly to his fantasies of peace and tranquility in Gotham. As he aged, he found himself coming to terms with the truth about the city. The city was diseased; pregnant with sorrow and festering with malfeasance. He shook his head to do away with the thought. He wasn't sure if it was his own or one implanted by the Court of Owls. Though they had been eradicated, some of their influence was slow to be forgotten. He couldn't hide from it, unable to deny it, now he sought to fight against it. 

_As long as there are a few good people left in Gotham. He reminded himself. It is still worth fighting for._

Which was why he was here of all places. His feet pressed firmly against the grimy ledge of a roof. He watched as the wayward found sustenance for their savage afflictions of violence and hysteria. He was there to protect the unknowing from the grasp of these individuals. He told himself that it was for a good cause and that was true. But deep down he knew that it was also for the thrill of the fight. He lived for it. As sick as he felt admitting it. There was a joy that accompanied the adrenaline rush of each confrontation and a feverish desire for the hunt.

They never saw him coming and even when they did he struck with force and efficiency. The fright that he got on his 'off' days was tantalizing. He couldn't bring himself to outwardly admit it. He tried hard to fight these emotions. It always led him to another. A thought that chilled him to his core. The thought of murder. He hid it in the deepest section of his subconscious but it would pop up occasionally.

He found himself very thankful to have Alfred in that moment. He wondered sometimes, what would happen if he was left to his own devices for too long. He had been told that he would have to make a decision about who to be on his own. He had made that decision. He would become a man who stood for justice and hope. Each day he re-affirmed his values to prevent himself from straying. He cracked his neck as a familiar mantra began to echo up from his subconscious.

_Let it out, Brucie. Just let it out._

Tonight would be no different. He reminded himself. He would bring himself to the brink of that emotion and reel himself back as he always did. As he had in the Hall of Mirrors. 

He watched as a young couple strolled through the dimly lit passage way. They talked amongst themselves. It was a happy conversation, he surmised as the well-dressed coquettish woman batted the man's shoulder playfully. One of the men hoovering around the oil drum moved into the shadows. The dark irises of his eyes shined with red and orange refractions of light. 

Bruce moved quickly, descending down the fire escape. He watched as they passed the cluster of homeless people, the man in dark clothing followed. Bruce examined him closely as he moved from floor to floor with the stealth of a cat. That's when he saw it, the glint of silver that poked out from the bottom of the would-be assailant's sleeve. He slid down the bottom ladder as quietly as he could. The man draped in worn leather stood in the center of the alleyway now. He was blocking the only exit. He made it clear, without saying, that the only way out was through him. Bruce raised an eyebrow as he eased closer to them. Usually, such crimes were committed by groups. This criminal must have been a novice or a reject to go at it alone. 

“Hey!” He yelled, his voice was gruff and menacing. He shook a little and for a moment Bruce considered that this may be a crime of necessity. 

The couple stopped. The young woman held her purse tightly as she watched the man with suspicion. He was beginning to breath erratically. It was always a bit of a let down when the criminal was nervous. It would make him clumsy and unfocused. He began to advance on them. 

“Give me your wallet! I want the purse and the jewelry too!” He exclaimed. His voice echoed against the high walls causing the homeless people to scatter in fear. He waved the knife as he moved closer. He pushed his free hand into one of his coat pockets. Bruce saw that he was concealing something heavy and angled. The boyfriend gave a look of defiance but as the criminal drew his hand from his pocket his gaze gave way to a powerless resolve. 

“Whatever you want, buddy.” He said as he moved ever so slightly in front of his girlfriend. 

“Don't move!” The criminal shook as he shouted. The boyfriend stopped immediately, raising his hands above his head. 

“Look, man. I'm just going to reach into my back pocket and get my wallet now.” He said as he eased his left hand out of the air. “No one has to get hurt.” 

That was the wrong thing to say. Bruce nearly face palmed himself as he rolled his eyes. He left his hiding place, sneaking up behind the lone gunman. The gun seemed lackluster in the criminal's shaking hand. Bruce eased behind him quietly, suddenly wishing for this endeavor to end as soon as possible. A look of surprise crept across the woman's face as she peered over her boyfriend's shoulder. The boyfriend straightened his back defensively, moving to block her body with his own. Bruce could feel his heartbeat echoing in his ears as adrenaline began to course through him. The criminal tensed as he became aware of Bruce's presence.

As he whirled around, he gave the teenager the opportunity that he had been waiting for. He grabbed the leather-clad criminal's wrist, aiming it at the sky, wincing slightly as the sound of a bullet leaving the chamber echoed through the air. 

Bruce delivered the first blow with his free hand. It was a blow to the nose, more than five pounds of pressure. He thought silently. The tell tale crunch and the satisfying groan was all he needed to confirm that he'd broken this individual's nose. He saw a slight stripe of crimson against his fist as he drew it back and for a brief second he faded into the memory of punching someone else. A shock of red hair and that smell...the smell of cotton candy and caramel popcorn.

He brought his knee up sharply as the man's body began to tilt. The criminal let out an agonized breath as the teen's knee was forced into his ribcage. _One, two, three._ Bruce counted as he listened to the breathless groans of pain. 

One outward twist of his wrist and the gun fell. If it had fired again, he hadn't heard it. Bruce saw a glint of silver out of the corner of his eye. Grey, like the back of a shard of broken glass. He pulled himself away from that thought quickly. He hadn't been watching the knife. In the heat of the moment he had forgotten. Perhaps today was his lucky day after all. The criminal had dropped it somewhere between the crushing of his nose and the blows to his ribcage. Bruce let go. With a heavy sigh he brought his right hand down again. It crashed into the man's cheek with a loud thwack. Then he was done. The man fell, clutching his stomach, wheezing through gritted teeth. 

“W-who are you?!” He seethed before succumbing to a few wet coughs. 

“Your worst nightmare.” Bruce grumbled, feeling silly as soon as the words left his mouth. He would have to work on his snappy retorts. He brought his foot down, across the criminals head and watched as his body went slack. He wasn't dead, that Bruce knew but he was most certainly unconscious. 

Bruce looked around, the couple had fled as he expected they would. The citizens surrounding the oil drum had scattered as well. They were the only ones left in the alley. Him and this criminal. The only two on stage. He tried to breath as his surroundings changed. Suddenly, he was being held as a sea of onlookers watched. An iron grip around his waist and that smell. The smell of caramel popcorn again filled his nostrils. He shook his head as he tried to breath. This wasn't happening. Not again, he thought to himself. He ran away from the battered man. He ignored the roaring of his heart rate and the sudden euphoric feeling of adrenaline. He had relished in the leather-clad man's suffering and he was feeling his own form of that woeful emotion now. The thin scar around his neck throbbed. 

He would have to call the GCPD. He tried to focus on that thought but he couldn't. He heard laughter against his ear, the faint memory of it. That cackle. 

Once he was far enough away, he placed his hands on his knees. He rested against a wall as he took deep breaths. He wished that Alfred had come along. Normally, Alfred would have but Bruce had insisted on going at it alone. Bruce hoped he was watching again. He did that on occasion. Watched over Bruce, just in case he ran into too much trouble.

But Alfred had been instructed to assist Lucius with testing out Bruce's new equipment. Perhaps, Alfred would be out for a long while. When he was a few streets away he would make the call. He thought as he straightened his clothing. The GCPD would find the couple's assailant and finish what he had started. He began to contemplate whether he should find another hiding place or just go home. Alfred had established a few guidelines for Bruce's nightly adventures. He focused on those guidelines to keep his mind away from those memories.

The first rule was one caper a night. He was limited in helping one citizen at a time. One person, group of people or couple a night. The second rule was easy enough to understand, no confined spaces without a clear exit strategy. The third rule was more of a time constraint. He was only allowed to wait four hours at a time. If nothing happened in six hours he was to return home. Alfred had said it was to prevent him from becoming burned out. He had been struggling lately with the impulsivity of his youth and the maturity that this hobby required.

He turned another corner, down another street. They were beginning to look the same to him. As he made his way to his vehicle he briefly wondered if he should visit Jeremiah but decided against it. He wondered how the young man was doing after the incident. Though Jeremiah seemed to have good intentions he couldn't help but wonder just how much the young man had in common with his insidious twin. That thought filled him with an eerie, sickening desire. He clenched the side of his thigh as the memories began to flood his senses.

Jerome's face as he relaxed in his bloody chair. Blood stained gloves. Bruce inhaled through gritted teeth. He imagined those gloves around his neck. He clenched his throat slightly as he closed his eyes, allowing himself this momentary lapse in time and judgment. Jerome's ivory glove wrapped firmly around his pistol as he shot Zack Trumble. That look of worry blended with a sick enjoyment that he gave Bruce when he refused the ginger's help with the Strong Man. That strangled, tight version of his laugh. The way his shoulder's moved under the thin Arkham issued undershirt as he watched Selena. He felt a wave of nausea mixed with a traitorous delight heave up from his stomach. 

He could still feel the slight pounded of his heart. The scar around his throat puffed with every rush of blood, pressing a smile into his open palm. He bit back tears as an involuntary moan left his lips. He succumb to dry sobs as he started the vehicle. He pressed his legs together tightly and ignored the heat pooling between his legs. As he drove a feeling of self-hatred and disgust enveloped him. 

Back in town...

“You don't seem like yourself.” Ecco spoke, crossing and uncrossing her legs in frustration. 

“I am me. Come now, Ecco. Who else would I be?” Jeremiah smiled charmingly as he approached her. He eyed her body with an intangible intent. Her cheeks began to glow a pale pink. She cleared her throat. Her breath hitched as he knelt down in front of her. He seemed too calm, too controlled. She wished she knew why. Just moments before he had seemed to be falling apart. He reached forward to tie the laces of her left boot. 

“Your shoe lace has come undone. Were you running?” He looked up at her slowly, his eyes sticky and glowing with some warm emotion that she couldn't place. He had never looked at her that way before. 

“That's what I mean.” She said, setting her jaw. “I do apologize if I've come off as intrusive.” She stepped away as he finished. He moved up slowly. His eyes never wavering from hers as he stood to his full height. She gulped soundly which caused him to smile deeply. He stepped closer as he peered down into her eyes. She struggled to breath as the scent of his cologne enveloped her. He was too close. She couldn't move. 

“I-I wanted to tell you that I dropped off the proposal as you instructed.” She said once she was able to swallow down the sensation of heat that spread just above her hips. He tilted his chin upwards, staring down at her through half-lidded eyes. “I should go.” 

“It is getting rather late isn't it?” He said as he placed a hand on her lower back, drawing her closer. She gasped soundly at the feeling of his warm body mere centimeters away from hers. 

Something was happening between them. She thought quietly. She could feel their dynamic changing as that heat grew and spread through her core. She had been waiting for this. She had been pining for this secretly, deeply. How she had hoped that he would take her in his arms and finally validate the emotion that she had been nurturing for so long. 

“You have been...such an invaluable asset to me. Ecco, you can stay here anytime you like.” He was hoovering now. He drew her closer until there bodies were almost touching. Close, she bit her lip, but not close enough. He stared at her lips as he brought his hand to the center of her back. His skilled fingertips tracing a thin line up her spine like a piece of expensive silk. She gasped languidly, casting her eyes to the ground in embarrassment. 

“I appreciate that.” She said. This wasn't the Jeremiah that she had grown accustomed to. This new version of him was bold and undeniably charismatic. He lacked the same benevolent air, the fumbling and shy charisma of his genius was in the rear view. The real him, what she believed was the real him was taking a back seat to this new personality. This new personality was an uninvited guest; a strange imposter. He had the same walk, the same quiet verisimilitude, the same face. Though this man wore Jeremiah's clothing and cologne and called her with his voice, he didn't feel like Jeremiah. She felt as though she were in the presence of a charming shape-shifter. Her stomach dropped at the thought. 

She had had an interesting meeting earlier that day with a shorter blond haired woman. What came to mind at this moment was what the woman had said. 

She had met her on her way out of Wayne Plaza. She couldn't remember very much about the interaction. For some reason, she had felt a profound urge to befriend this woman. They had gone to a coffee shop. Though the memory was blurry, she remembered some things. 

“I imagine, this must be like a new beginning for you two.” The dirty blond purred over her milkshake. “It must be so liberating.” She had laughed. She remembered laughing at that.

“He has been very depressed as of late.” She admitted as she took a sip of her coffee. She smiled to herself before regaining her composure.

“He's my employer and he's been good to me. That's all.” Ecco had said. 

The dirty blond grimaced as she watched her take a sip of the deep brown liquid. She replaced it with a quick smile. 

“Be honest with me. We're girlfriends after all.” She laughed freely, touching Ecco's hand. Ecco smiled deeply. Something about that woman had made her feel euphoric and invigorated. 

“I feel like I've known you forever.” Ecco sighed. “You're so-”

“Easy to talk to?” The older woman finished her sentence with a knowing stare. Ecco had nodded. As she recalled this memory, she couldn't understand what had come over her. 

“So tell me,” The woman said as she leaned in. “Does he ever talk about Bruce Wayne?” That's the last thing she remembered about that juncture of the conversation. Bits and pieces were coming back to her but they weren't in order. 

“His brother was 'fascinated' too.” June, that was her name, Ecco recalled. June had made air quotations as she continued to speak. “I guess he just couldn't help himself. You'd be surprised what people are willing to do for the Waynes.” She said, a bitter edge to her tone. “Kill people, die for them. Who knows, maybe even...” June leaned in a little closer. “That's a story for another time.” 

“What-” Ecco said as she felt a gentle hand against the base of her neck. 

“Ecco? Earth to Ecco.” Jeremiah said as he moved his other hand to the side of her neck. “I'm beginning to worry about you.” He spoke finally as his fingertips crawled up to fill the spaces under her ears. 

“You seem to be fine though.” He smirked. She grabbed his left wrist still too shocked to speak. On occasion she had caught him watching her but it seemed out of concern or amiability more than anything else. His touches had always been accidental and soft, nervous and unfocused. This was intentional, caring and delicate. 

“You should stay here tonight. I'll look after you.” He said with a worried expression, releasing her from his touch. 

“No, I appreciate the offer but I think I should go home.” She said crossing her arms protectively. He examined her briefly. 

“But you strongly desire to stay.” He said with a slight knowing smile. His eyes crept up her body as he grinned charmingly. 

“What?” She said, flabbergasted by his actions. In lieu of his strange behavior she had forgotten just how skilled he was at reading people. He didn't read people. He studied them. She corrected herself absentmindedly. She wondered just how long he had been studying her. When had it started? How had she missed it? She wondered just how easily he could read her. She turned away from him, preparing to leave.

“You were tardy returning from your assignment.” He quirked his brows. “I was worried.” 

“I...think I made a new friend.” She smiled honestly. It would be best to be honest, she decided. If she lied he would know. He always knew. Whether it was a lie by omission or emission. She had worked tirelessly to earn his trust and she refused to throw away their progress by concealing things from him. 

“A friend?” He asked as he lightly wrapped his fingers around her arm. She jumped at the proximity of his voice. He was right behind her. She let him turn her around. “How so?” 

She sighed deeply, recounting what she could remember. 

She had decided to leave certain things out, the things that she couldn't remember so well. He was fragile. It had always been so but after the clown had offed himself something had snapped. She could see it against his best efforts to hide it. She couldn't bring herself to feed his paranoia. A new start, she thought. That would be nice. 

Perhaps that's why he was acting differently. A smile crept across her lips as she finished her explanation. Maybe this was just a different side of him, a part that she hadn't seen before. Stifled by the overwhelming presence of his brother and pinned down by the psychological chains of his upbringing. To her surprise, he didn't panic. He chuckled deeply. 

“We'll have to do something about his followers.” He whispered pensively as he sipped his scotch. “In due time my love, you won't need to worry about shallow friendships.” He stared at her as he sat down. 

“What do you mean?” She asked as she drew a little closer. She tried to ignore the butterflies in her stomach at the pet name. He called me sweetheart! She gushed internally. 

“I don't mean to insinuate that you are incapable of forming genuine friendships, my dear. Let me elaborate.” He took one more sip before he placed the glass on the table. “Jerome, that short sighted psychopath, has finally kicked the bucket. It isn't hard to believe that his followers are searching for a way in, for a lack of better wording.”

“That assumption is out of character for you.” She said with narrowed eyes. “Proposing such a thing. After all, they don't know that I work for you.” 

“Yes, but Jerome knew. Chances are, they know too.” He said after a moment of silence. A chuckle escaped his lips. “ But no matter.” He stood. 

“It's not like me to propose.” He smirked as he considered her words. “I was proposing something much more...sensational before you changed the subject.” Her cheeks reddened at that. 

“You didn't correct me.” He grinned over the rim of his glass.

“You're not yourself. Perhaps you should focus on getting more sleep.” She instructed casually, grabbing her coat from his work chair.

“Ecco? He said quietly. When she turned to watch him this time, she noticed the look on his face. The tranquil confidence had abated. This Jeremiah looked more like her employer. This Jeremiah resembled her friend. “These past few weeks have left me introspective. What I mean to say is that I have come to realize what – no, who is truly important to me in the grand scheme of things.” Her heart began to race with excitement. This was a new person. Someone unfamiliar and the same. She exhaled soundly. 

“Who do you mean?” She heard her own voice utter boldly. Her fingertips tingled and her heart was racing. Racing to what end she didn't know. He stepped forward, smiling all the while. 

“Well, Bruce of course.” He chuckled. Her heart sank quickly, skipping a beat as it plummeted into the abyss of depression. 

“I don't understand your logic.” She said but Jeremiah seemed far away as smiled to himself, his worried expression caving in to a look of gratitude. 

“He's challenging sure. Nothing worthwhile is ever easy. He's been a real friend, Ecco. But I will say, he has some personality flaws that we need to...free him of. Did you know he was crying? Not out right but still. I saw the tell tale signs the night that lunatic finally did the world a favor by dying. What a joke.” He spat with ire. “To think that he would shed tears for that walking abortion.” He took another sip of scotch. 

“W-” She started but he cut her off.

“I wish he was more like you.” Jeremiah smiled fondly. He stared off into the distance. His eyes on the wall beyond her. She didn't know what to say. Something was wrong and for the first time she felt afraid in his presence. He was stroking her hair before she realized. She looked up at him with questioning eyes.

“You've been good to me.” He said, rubbing his thumb against her quivering lip. “So good to me and unwaveringly loyal. I dread to think how far I would be without you.” He looked at her pensively. 

“I-” She started but before she could continue, he pressed his lips against hers, drawing her closer. She melted into his passionate embrace. 

Two days ago…

Across the city, hidden away, a dangerous man chuckled to himself. He angled the examination table, before looking over at the stiff corpse.

“Looking at you is like looking into a mirror.” He said as he leaned in to examine the young man's face. “Thinking back, I guess I didn't do half bad.” He grinned as he pulled a long syringe out of his jacket pocket. 

“I will say though, Screwball and Jester sure did a number on you, kid.” He laughed heartily. He angled the syringe, aiming at the corpse's neck. 

“Don't worry though, the good times aren't over yet.” He stroked the young man's hair, running his callous fingertips through the strands. “I heard, Screwball named you Jerome. I always liked that name.” He smiled wide as he inserted the needle. Jerome's arms fell slack against his sides, his eyes still wide and cloudy. 

“Not that you'll ever know. I sure as heck won't be the one to tell you.” He continued talking as he lifted the body gingerly, using the body bag as a grip. He moved it from one metal table to another. He brought his face closer to the corpse. 

“We'll have to fix those stitches though. No worries, Daddy's little trouble maker.” He chuckled as he tapped his index finger against the tip of Jerome's ice cold nose. “You'll be right as rain soon.” 

He pressed the button on the table, watching as metallic straps closed tightly around the body. A sleeve of metal with a small window moved up from Jerome's feet, encasing his prone frame. The man continued to smile as the pieces moved together to form a cryostasis pod. He moved quickly, dragging the pod into the large elevator before walking back into the room to grab the only source of light. He looked at the interesting activated power source before pressing the down button. 

“Unfortunately, our little reunion will have to wait. A friend of mine is very eager to meet you.” He said before turning away. He hummed a happy tune as he closed his eyes. Thoughts of dismembered bodies and dying heroes filled his imagination. 

It had been quite a few years since Murderworld's debut. Decades had passed and at one time he had found it to be an enjoyable sport. But after Screwball, his thoughts had turned to revenge. 

He had found himself possessed by that urge solely. When she left something had felt off. As pained as he was to admit it. He had continued his savage art for several years after her departure, splitting concentration between two efforts, continuing to supply his audience with brutal delights and searching for her. A few months after she had gone into hiding, he had gotten word that she had run off with Jester. He had sent an old friend to remind her of where she belonged. Jester had been blinded in the process. He laughed loudly at the thought. All it took was a little brain tampering to get the desired results from that old glory hound. Unfortunately, she went deeper underground as a result, taking the wounded Jester with her. 

Some informants claimed to have found them in Canada, others said she'd ran off with a snake breeder and had spent the last twenty years in Kansas City. During the off seasons he had followed the hints and the tidbits of information but somehow he was always a step behind her. With each passing year he felt the urgency of his rage building and morphing into a general type of adrenaline. How he longed to sooth himself with her last ragged breaths. To watch as her body was propelled through the obstacles of his human pinball table until all of her bones were broken. He wanted more than anything to watch her die.

He had come so close to finding her. He had tracked her down to a washed up circus. He would have never thought to search for her there. She had spent most of her adolescence in a circus and from what he had gathered she had hated every minute of it. She had also, despised her brother which was what had driven her away in the first place. No, that was a lie. He thought as the elevator descended lower and lower underground. She had left her grandmother's loving arms to find her mother. Instead she had been taken in by a nice little family. She never talked about them to his chagrin. Not that he could remember anyway. 

They had met a few years after the accident that claimed the lives of her adopted family. He hummed pleasantly at the thought of his bipolar ex-sweetheart. She had been his personal passion. His suicidal, homicidal slice of American pie. His ultimate revenge. He chuckled at that; just as the elevator reached their stop.

He frowned as June sat on the examination table. She perched on the very edge, next to another body. Another redhead. 

“Did you bring him?” She asked simply. 

“Yes.” He nodded as the pod moved from the elevator, magnetically drawn to the table. 

“Is he in one piece?” She asked as she hopped down. She rubbed her glasses off on her thin sweater. 

“Of course!” He exclaimed theatrically. “I did a quick swap-aroo during transport. Replaced him with an old tire. They'll never know the difference.” He smoothed back his auburn hair and straightened his lapel, opening his arms for a greatly deserved hug but the dirty blonde side stepped him. 

“Cool it, Red.” She hacked, spitting a thick black substance into a napkin before folding it quickly and hiding it in her pocket. She peered into the elevator briefly before turning to face him. He grimaced disapprovingly. 

“I told ya to stop smoking. Those cancer sticks will kill ya. Slowly.” He grinned, causing her to roll her eyes. 

“And I told you, I'm a grown woman. You don't own me.” She scowled. Pressing numbers into the keypad on the side of the pod. 

“What a drastic change from last night.” He chuckled. 

“Arcade, stay focused!” She yelled as a few puffs of icy air left the sides of the pod. “Did you bring some of Hugo's equipment?” 

“And then some.” He said as he held up the canister that he had forgotten he was holding. “Seriously, my enchantress, you're beginning to offend me. What do you take me for? An amateur? Hey that rhymes!” He said happily with a charming grin. The middle aged woman laughed involuntarily.

He sighed deeply at the sound as a wave of relaxation coursed through him. He smiled gently as he watched her face. She moved a delicate hand to cover her mouth as she giggled. Her flaxen lashes met to conceal her vibrant blue eyes and he was shaken by the light blush that crept across her cheeks as she opened them. Oceanic blue orbs stared at him, framed by a youthful face, powder pink lush lips which held an air of chastity and licentiousness all at once and her cheeks, a color he had only known as ballet slipper pink. She was stunning to him. Even at her age, he couldn't imagine any woman competing with her natural beauty. He hummed to himself, unaware of how dilated his pupils had become. 

“Seriously, Arcade. We really need to have you tested. I am ninety-nine percent sure you have ADD.” She laughed again, drawing closer to him without noticing. He looked down at her then, still smiling with half lidded eyes. She snapped her fingers against his ear. “Can you hear me on planet Murder?” He cleared his throat as he straightened his back. 

“Yeah, yeah. I heard you just fine. Yuck it up but we both know I always pay attention when it counts.” He winked at her. He approached her utensils with wide eyes. Some of the objects that he saw were unfamiliar. 

“You won't believe where they were storing him.” She said, deciding to change the subject. He turned to face his deceased love child before jumping back in surprise. 

“W-what? Did they kill you too, Kenny?!” He asked, feigning disbelief. He bent over the second body cupping his ear. “Those bastards!” He elicited another laugh from June. He smiled as he chuckled. 

“T-that's not.” She tried to say between fits of laughter. “That's not Jeremiah...Really we should be taking this seriously.” She attempted to say it sternly while a few stray giggles fought their way out. She took a deep breath, staring at the wall behind him. “It's him.” 

“What do you mean?” He said sincerely, trying his best not to smile at her act of avoidance. 

“Hugo makes copies sometimes.” She scratched at her arm in an effort to keep the somberness from her voice. She knew more about Hugo's science experiments than she cared to admit. “When you are testing out a new hypothesis you use a disposable test subject first to make sure you're process is actually sound and to ensure...that you can always start back at square one if you need to.” She finished quietly. She was lost in a thought now. He frowned as he examined her features. She was shrinking in to herself, her eyes had grown glassy and far away. 

“I snagged him from Wayne enterprises.” She said with a cheery smile as she looked at him briefly before turning away to wipe her glasses again but Arcade didn't miss a beat. She drew her hand up to wipe away her tears but his hand wrapped around her wrist. 

“You're free.” He whispered against her ear as he enveloped her from behind. “No more experiments. No more pain and fear. June, you're free. Let those memories go.” He continued to whisper soothingly as he wrapped her in his arms. She closed her eyes briefly. 

A scaly man lay on a table beside her. His eyes were a lifeless milky white. His chest was open, blood pooled into the dip of his throat before spilling over. The hide of his chest and stomach had been cut open and the bloody expanse was kept hanging by metal clips, still attached to his side which created a makeshift curtain. The body moved against the table as Hugo continued to cut into him. 

She shook her head, turning in Arcade's arms. She inhaled his scent, the smell of his sweat mixing with the amber and gunpowder notes of his cologne. This is home now. She reminded herself. This is right. She smiled against his collarbone as he held on to her. 

“Let's get back to work.” She said finally. He laughed a little as he released her from his hold. 

“We'll do that. For now.” He nodded. “So what did you need the clone for?” 

“His memories.” She said simply. She moved into the space between the bodies. “I always wondered what you looked like as a young man.” She caressed Jerome's scarless cheek. 

“I think we would have met sooner but you know me. When I'm around things tend to get super lethal. Couldn't run with the B-list Suicide Squad.” She laughed at that statement. 

“If I remember correctly, you and Joker didn't get on so well.” She smirked. 

“As I recall, you had a thing for a rather buff and rough type and I'm not the kind of guy that waits in the wings.” He said as he scratched the back of his neck nervously. 

“If I recall correctly, you got a little too close to Harley.” She teased with a smile. She hit a switch on the wall and watched as the bookcase on the left side of the room slid to the side and a tall chair came in to view. Arcade raised his eyebrow as he took in the silver helmet attached to it. 

“It wasn't like what they said it was.” He murmured as he approached the chair. It hummed with an electrical pulse, filling the room with a low buzzing sound. “She was more like a ...big sister or...a friend's mom really.” 

“And you were scared of big bad Jay so you ran away.” She finished with a sigh. 

“Yeah well, he was coo coo for crazy puffs. I still got the last laugh though.” He grinned menacingly.  
“I fucked his daughter.” June's eyes widened and she blinked several times.

“Excuse me, what!?” She exclaimed. 

“No time to ponder the intricacies of life, my dear. There is work to be done.” He chuckled as he skipped over to the non-scarred version of his son. 

The Present…

Jeremiah was entertaining himself. The corridors of his man-made maze were silent. The stormy gray cement revealed no hints of life that could be hidden inside. The only indication of life could be seen in the center of the grand schism, a slender spiral staircase hung suspended by thin wire filaments. A bright blue light glowed from below it. 

In the subterranean level of Jeremiah's maze, the cold cement was bathed in a radiating blue light. A gentle hum could be heard from all corridors, corners, hidden pathways and false endings. To the naked eye, the maze seemed to stretch on endlessly without doors or rooms. In one particular segment of this endless labyrinth, behind a hidden door, Ecco's world was finally in technicolor. 

Jeremiah's lips moved against her neck. His tongue danced against the most sensitive spots.  
He lavished her in his affection and she crumbled with each kiss and caress. The blue light cast an eerie glow against their bodies. Under that delicate light Jeremiah's features seemed airbrushed and angelic to her eyes. She moaned as he pressed kisses against her jaw and forehead. His arm was wrapped tight around her, drawing her chest closer to his. She whimpered as exposed nipples brushed against his hard warm abdomen. 

“Take my love.” He smiled against her ear. His manhood slid softly up the pastel pink bell that was her vulva. She tried to reach for the sheets, to clench something as a shock of excitement overwhelmed her senses. She scratched at his back helplessly as she began to tremble. The intensity of pleasure left her blissful and breathless in his strong arms. She tried to rub against it. She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood as he rewarded her efforts with his own, moving his slick cock up and down at an agonizingly slow pace. She was wet. More so than she had every been alone with her fantasies. More than she imagined she could be. 

“Please.” She whispered, staring up at him with a lost expression. She was tired of waiting. Unable to ask implicitly from sheer embarrassment, she begged him for more with her eyes alone. His eyes made her hot, as though she were an ant under a magnifying glass. He examined the depths of her soul with a hungry predatory gaze. 

“What do you want?” He whispered against her lips, allowing the edge of his thumb to slip inside the warm cavern of her mouth. 

“Please.” She groaned breathily as he tensed, causing his leaking tip to tap softly against her clitoris. “I c-c-can't,” She fell silent as his chuckle rumbled through her core. 

“Oh god!” She exclaimed when she was finally able to catch her breath. He was stroking her hair lovingly, watching her every move like an entertained voyeur. He blew the pressure point under her ear, causing her to shiver, while simultaneously trailing his index finger up her spine. She moaned loudly as her senses were flooded. His cologne was a spicy mixture of sandalwood, amber, and chocolate with strong notes cinnamon. She tasted him in her mouth. Every taste bud clung to the salty sweet flavor of his skin, his lips and his tongue. He kissed her deeply. His soft lips were dominating as his tongue roamed. Her arms fell at her sides as she let herself go.

He smiled against her pouty lips as he pulled away. 

“Just let me know,” He said, whispering quietly into her ear. He drew her hips up with his other hand, pressing his soaked tip against her tight weeping opening. “And I'll give it you.” 

She dug her nails into his shoulders absentmindedly as he lifted her, angling her hips until he was pressing into the constricting throbbing ring of her entrance. She bit her lip as she looked down at him. Her vision was blurry and for a moment she thought his face was melting. She closed her eyes as her cheeks grew hot. 

She looked down at him again. She was quietly mustering the courage to ask for the thing that she wanted. He brought his hips up, pushing daringly at that tight circle before pulling away until he was just barely touching it. He moved their bodies until she was sitting in his lap again, chests pressed together, his manhood against her stomach. 

“Jeremiah?” She asked as she stroked the glistening hair on the nape of his neck. She felt love and loved. Her mind was still reeling from the completeness of experiencing and expressing both emotions at the same time. She brought her hands down to stroke his length while holding his gaze. He drew in a shaky breath, throwing his head back momentarily. 

“Yes?” He said, raising one eyebrow salaciously. She took in his imagine then. Jeremiah's body seemed much paler than his face under the lighting but he was softly build, his firm skin gave slight hints of his muscularity. Defined around his biceps, stomach and broad shoulders, Jeremiah was an example of God's divine handiwork. Ecco had never been particularly religious. She had been shoved into St. Ignacius by her parents and otherwise forgotten. Until Jeremiah. After many letters home and postcards and two angsty summers they had adopted him. 

Her world had never been the same and she had him to thank for it. She looked up at him fondly. She took in the light dark circles that had formed under his eyes as she raised herself onto her knees. He had given her so much to be happy for. In the end her parents had finalized their divorce papers but he had been there with her through the pain; he had nurtured her through the neglect and sorrow of loneliness. He was her angel. She stared at him, witness to his pain and the severity of his fatigue she saw all the beauty that he was. Through his trauma he had become a marvelous man. She felt tears welling in her eyes as she kissed him, again and again and again, drawing her legs tighter as she moved to pull him into her. 

“I love you so much.” She whispered as she brought her hands together. Fingertips to fingertips; how she had learned to place her hands together in prayer. She drew them apart, watching his face and his emerald orbs flecked with grey-blue shards of color as he looked at the strings of glistening fluid that hung between them. “Be one with me.” She whispered against his parted lips. 

He opened his arms in acceptance, trailing his fingers down her arms before pressing their hands together. Raising them above their heads, he forced her down onto him. She was captured in a passionate kiss.

He absorbed her exhalation of surprising upon being entered, suffocating her with his mouth. She felt dizzy as she tried to beg for a moment. Just a second to catch her breath and regain some semblance of pride but he gave her no time to second guess herself or their coupling as he began to thrust. They were shallow at first, massaging a spot inside of her that made her see stars. Just as quickly as they began they ended; replaced by a deep and powerful probing that filled her completely. She felt herself being forced open, stretching to accommodate his length and girth. Her eyes rolled into her skull as he tapped the very end of her short tunnel.

She squealed powerlessly as her body began to convulse at the sensation. He pressed her down by the top of her head with every thrust upward. She fell against him, trembling, unable to move as he pistoned with more urgency. He growled in her ear as he continued thrusting savagely and thoroughly. He stroked her hair between thrusts, tenderly, lightly. She tried to breath between whimpers and moans. She tried to think between kisses and caresses. Just as she felt a thought coming or a word forming on her lips he would do something else. From circling her nipples with his wet thumbs to gripping the hair at the nape of her neck and sucking on the thin skin over her jugular, he was relentless in his endeavor to elicit absolute pleasure and obedience from his willing subject.

All the while, Ecco was trapped in a purgatorial state of bliss. Her body felt warm and tingly when she was finally able to focus. He filled her with the weight of his masculinity one more time. She could feel his eyes on her as he leaned over her body. When had she fallen against the bed? When did he pin her down? She didn't know and she didn't care. All she wanted was that delicious warmth that spread all over her to never stop. She licked her lips as she arched her back causing him to thrust deeper and deeper. The sound of flesh colliding formed a maddening siren song in her head as he continued his ministrations. 

“Jeremiah!” She screamed. Tiny white orbs of light exploded in her line of vision as she drew closer to her undoing. “Jeremiah, I love you!” She continued as he pressed their foreheads together, his breath against her cheeks and lips. 

“Do you?” He asked sincerely, slowing his pace before slamming into her with the full force of his body weight. She grabbed at the sheets, wrapping her fists in the soft fabric. He returned to a snail pace quickly. 

“Y-yes. Completely.” She stuttered. Her legs closed mechanically around his waist, trying in futility to draw him in, She twitched around his manhood. His wide wild eyes bore into her as he thought. 

“Prove it.” His smile widened slowly and for a moment he looked devilishly menacing. She felt a spike of fear mixed with adrenaline as she looked at him. She shook her head slowly. She tried to move the hair from her face but her body defied her. She watched as her hands went up to cup his face. He struck out like a snake, shoving them above her head. 

“Will you do something for me?” He said. He looked sexily sinister. She remarked quietly. She gulped audibly before succumbing to quiet sobs. He had pulled out while he spoke and she was left with the phantom weight of his cock and the memory of that zenith point she had been so desperately chasing. She nodded again as she put her thumb in her mouth to ease the covetous desire that had begun to build inside of her. His grin got wider and his eyes narrowed to slits.

Cheshire Cat. She thought. He grabbed her shoulder forcefully throwing her onto her stomach. She yelped in surprise. She heard a sound behind her and she inhaled sharply. She tried to look but he held her down with his arm across her shoulders. For moment, she considered the sound. That sounds like a-

“Do you remember this?” He asked her as he placed the cold metal against her cerebellum. “The first gun dear dead dad bought for you.” He kissed her ear again but her heart was in her stomach now and the heat of desire was being washed away by a cool wave of fright. “The one we used to kill him.” He was chuckling now, lowering himself onto her. She bit her lip as her senses became overstimulated. She remembered that gun and that day all too clearly. For over six years she had been hiding from it. She had been hiding from what she had done.

He looked up at her as he choked on his own blood. He couldn't speak, not anymore. The fire poker sticking out of his skull had hit the speech center of his brain. His eyes were beginning to glaze and he choked as he tried to form words. His hands shook over the gun shot wound just under his heart. 

“I'm sorry.” Ecco cried before succumbing to laughter. “I just...” She sniffed as Jeremiah pulled the gun into his gloved hands, taking the handkerchief out of his breast pocket to wipe it down. 

“I really really wanted to watch you die.” She finished. She crawled on top of him, unable to wait any longer. The anticipation of his death was too much. She wanted to feel his final breaths leave his body. She wanted to wrench them out of him herself. He tried to block her hands but she swatted his hands away. She covered his mouth and his nose with the same hands she used to help drive a fire poker into his skull. 

“Please accept my sincerest apologies, Mr. Wilde.” Jeremiah was there now, stroking her father's hair gently. It looked like a calming effort, the way Jeremiah attended to him in his last moments. He stroked Mr. Wilde the way most people stroked their pets. With sweeping motions. With the grain.

“Ecco has surpassed the skill of you tutelage. Your guidance, as of late has been...lacking.” He said as the man began to convulse. Ecco felt hot all over and electric with the endorphin rush that had come. She pinned him down with her body, forcing her hands down harder against his mouth. 

“Not to fear, she's in good hands.” Jeremiah reassured. He had stopped stroking as the man's body convulsed. Now he gripped Mr. Wilde's silvery hair to hold his head in place. “I mean, we're practically the same person. To halves of the same soul.” He reached for her with his free hand just as Ian H. Wilde the third took his last breath. 

She had never been looked at the way Jeremiah had looked at her. Not by any of her boyfriends. Not by her mother or her father or her stepfather. His gaze was soft and full of love and..appreciation. He looked at her as though he was witnessing a divine act of god. Out of the mythology books that she had read she had never heard of a god offering a sacrifice to another. Giving up something precious to another to worship at their temple but that was what the act it felt like to her. Jeremiah had given up the man that had saved him for a place at her side. She reached for his hand. Her breath shook as her fingers sought the spaces between his and they became entwined. 

“I love you more than your mother, more than your father and much more than I believe you understand. Let me keep you. Let's be one.” He had whispered over Mr. Wilde's prone body. 

That had been the first time they kissed. And the last. 

Jeremiah went on to obtain his Doctorate in Engineering and completed his maze. He was emancipated only a year later. In secret, he began to see a psychiatrist and was placed on medication. She became a master in seven forms of self-defense and martial arts. She moved out of her mother's house and into a studio apartment around that time, just before her sixteenth birthday. All to be closer to him. They never spoke of that night again. Until now. 

Just as she formed a response, her vision burst with bright light and she felt as though she were tasting colors. Bright sweet flavored hues of blue and savory red. She moaned intensely as she adjusted to his girth again, purring at the delicious feeling of pain and pleasure. 

“That's it, Ecco. Let yourself go.” Jeremiah cooed as he wrapped her hand around the pistol. She drew the gun up to her temple shakily. It couldn't be loaded. She thought. Even if Jeremiah was weird sometimes she knew he wasn't crazy enough to bring a loaded gun to bed with them. 

He stroked her side suggestively before digging his nails into the soft skin of her hip. She whined pitifully into the pillow. Her hands were shaking violent as he resumed his savage thrusting. All the while the heat inside of her was driving her to the brink of insanity. He lay kisses along the nape of her neck. His lips ghosted up to her earlobe. His index finger wrapped around hers, curling their fingers tightly around the trigger.

He removed his arm to place his hand on her stomach to keep her steady as he pushed inside with the force of all of his weight. Her eyes rolled into her skull again. She could smell the liquor now. The scent ebbed it's way through the thick cloak of his cologne. She didn't care. She loved the way he made her feel. She pressed against him as he arched in, hitting that spot that made her gag on her own sounds. 

If he needed to hear the sound, she would do it. She would make this sacrifice for him. She tried to pull the trigger without realizing that his finger was preventing her movement. He ceased his movements yet again and this time she did cry. 

“I know. I know.” Jeremiah whispered with a savage delight in his voice. “You are on the brink of climax. Be a good girl for me, uh, Ecco? Can I ask for this?” He emphasized his point with a quick glide of his hips. He pulled the gun down to the side of her neck. 

“Yesss, right there. When you're close. I want you to pull the trigger. Just once. I just,” A few more shallow thrusts. “I need to know you're willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for my love.” He changed his pace. He dived in slowly and completely. The sound of pounding flesh was all that could be heard as she was forced to be silent. She nodded vigorously. 

Though his rhythm was slow it was deliberately powerful. She wasn't moaning anymore. She couldn't. She couldn't speak, couldn't think and didn't feel as though she could move. She held on to his words with fragile concentration. He was groaning again, deep and animalistically. 

“Ecco,” He admonished. “How you spoil me.” He was kissing her again. She couldn't get enough of his touch. Of his taste. His throbbing length inside of her, his body pressed so close to hers, the feeling of his sweat as it formed a slick layer against her back, bottom and thighs. She couldn't take it. It was so much for her to handle. After years of being alone she'd forgotten what a man's touch felt like. Not that it had ever felt this good. The nervous fumbling petting sessions of her youth couldn't compare.

Jeremiah had had a long time to think about this. She squeezed her eyes shut as her fingertips and toes began to tingle. She pulled the trigger as she drew closer. The surprise and fright drew her even nearer to euphoria causing her to become more sensitive to each stroke, caress and kiss. This seemed to stir something in Jeremiah, he flipped her over in the blink of an eye. She didn't have a minute to catch her breath as he rammed in to her. 

His thrusts were quick and near painfully filling. The gun never wavered from that spot on her neck. He suffocated her with his kiss. Drawing out every gutteral moan, every whimper and groan until she was breathless beneath the sheer force of his attention. His eyes were wild and his smile was unnaturally wide as he watched her features. She tried to meet his eye. She wanted desperately to hold his gaze as they both reached the zenith point of bliss but as he tapped against her cervix she felt her eyes rolling closed.

With a delighted smile she pulled the trigger again and this time, a bright white light overtook her. Her legs shook as her senses were flooded. Her ears where ringing and her legs shook with the force of that blissful sensation. The trigger was pulled again and this time she rode the after shock until darkness over took her momentarily. She heard a faint jingling sound and nothing else. She was convulsing and suddenly there was pain. Her neck. She gasped breathlessly as he came inside of her. She was oozing. She tried to think but nothing would come. She saw a splatter of red against Jeremiah's pallid grinning face before the pain became unbearable and she soon fainted. 

“Oh, Ecco.” Jeremiah sighed as he lifted himself from her body, bundling the sheets against her fresh wound. “You're so beautiful.” He sat on his knees between her legs, admiring his handiwork as her scarlet blood spread into the bundle of ivory silk.


	3. Humble Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jerome's finally up but not quite himself just yet. He has a strange desire though. He wants to find Bruce Wayne.

Jerome was floating. He was swathed in darkness. Numb and cold. Where was he? He felt himself drifting in and out of a state of consciousness. I'm sleeping. I must be. He thought as a buzzing headache began to form. Just as it started it was gone. It faded into the darkness that engulfed him along with his thoughts. Moments stretched on for an endless amount of time and he found himself unable to think, move or feel but he was conscious. He believed. Or somewhere in between at the very least.

“You were the worst thing to happen to me.” The words came back to him. In an instance his senses were flooded. It was still dim but the darkness subsided. He was walking. Walking quickly up the base of a hill. There was a woman following him. He knew this woman but he couldn't remember where they met.

“Jerome, get back here! I know you hear me!” She was yelling at him now. Her shrill voice over powering the jingle of the coins on her gypsy skirt. A gypsy skirt. The sound was familiar to him. Too familiar. Where was he heading? He questioned himself and within a second he knew the answer. To the underpass. His secret place. He remembered now. This was the night. The night everything changed. He almost laughed. He could hear a low pulse ringing in his ears and his fingertips began to tingle. He had to get away from her. Away, to silence the thing crawling in his mind. To silence the evil, as she called it. The coins jingled loudly as she jogged sluggishly behind him.

“I'm finally happy but you just have to drag me down don't you?” She spat venomously. He sneered at that just as his brain began to feel numb.

“If banging a clown makes you happy then who am I to judge?” He questioned sarcastically. He knew what was going to happen. This was a memory. No matter how real it felt. He wished he could wake up. Wake up and end this but it was never that easy.

“How dare you!” She bellowed as she finally caught up to him. She moved in front of him, placing both hands against his chest to shove him back. He felt the handle and refused to look at her. One bottle in her hand and a knife in the other. That was his mother alright. The circus wasn't even over and she was already plastered. “He takes care of me which is more than I can say about you. Couldn't even hold a job at the concession stand.”

He chuckled at that.

“Manny's a creep. He fired me because you stopped boning him.” He sneered. Internally, he was laughing. If she wanted to stoop low he'd show her rock bottom in her own reflection. “You couldn't even get a job on your -hic- own.” She started with a light giggle, lifting the bottle of whiskey to take another sip but he smacked it out of her hand. It fell and rolled back down to the base of the hill.

“No, mother. I can't get a job because you've whored yourself out to -ah, I don't know- ninety-seven percent of the male circus freaks and they don't want the kid they've beat the stuffing out of around as a constant reminder. At least I can say you give to charity. You hand yourself out like you're Mother Teresa serving dinner at the soup kitchen.” He placed his hands together as though he were praying. He blinked too long and missed her lashing out. The knife connected with the side of his white shirt, cutting through the fabric. He stumbled back in surprise.

“You pathetic little boy.” She started as she advanced. “I clothed you. I fed you. I put a roof over -hic- your head!” She cut through the air, narrowly missing his face. He backed away from her, not in fear but in anger and something else. An emotion that he couldn't touch now.

“Mr. Cicero has been giving me clothes for the past three years!” Jerome was angry now. He couldn't hide it. He didn't attempt to be humorous to ease her ire. This time, there was nothing to smile or laugh about.

“I knew it! You've been conspiring with him, huh?” She slurred, lifting her hand to take another sip before remembering that the bottle was gone. Anger was etched in her features and all he could do was sigh. “He's just as pathetic as you are. You're just another boy scout to read him the newspaper.” She chuckled as though she had told a funny joke.

“When I was on my own I was good. No, -hic- I was golden.” She swayed a little as she spoke. She stopped walking and now he could see just how intoxicated she was. “Then I had you two. Like you're father hadn't fucked me over enough by that point. Jeremiah atleast made something of himself. But you're just like your father. Can't stand for me to be happy!”

“Ma, you're drunk. Let's go back to the trailer and I'll” He tried to persuade her as his voice tensed. He reached forward to grab her but she swiped at him again with the knife. This time there was blood. He clenched his bleeding arm in surprise.

“No, you stay away from me.” She said with an air of finality. “You're no good and I've been chained to you for long enough. Get the hell away from me and don't you ever come back.” She brandished the knife as if to show him how far she was willing to go.

“Because I'm the problem right? Not the guys who beat on you. Definitely not the guys who beat on me. And let's talk about you because you're never to blame. No, not for the snake guy or anyone else. It's all me, right? I **make** you hit me? I **made** you kill-”

“Don't you ever bring that up-” She whispered dangerously.

“You killed him and stole his snake!” Jerome shouted.

“He was beating us!” She shouted.

“You were both beating on me that entire week! It didn't become a problem until he hit you.” Jerome sniffed lightly, ignoring that tight feeling in his chest.

“You're pure evil. Possessed.” She shook her head as her eyes widened at what she heard. That's when he felt it.

Before he could process what was happening he began to laugh. It was light at first, a chuckle but as it built it became a cackle. He looked at her then, his eyes wide and dark.

“You've been telling me that my whole life.” He said with a wide smile. “I'm possessed. No matter how much I take care of you or how many times I clean you up. No matter how many times I do the chores. Do my homework. Clean up after the elephants or the monkeys or the snake. I'm evil. Even when you're lovers decide it's time to punch, strangle or beat me till I black out or pass out.” He laughed heartily at the scared look on her face. “Yes, I'm to blame. So end it.”

He had been tired. Tired of cleaning her up on the nights when her partners left her soiled and alone. He was exhausted from all the years of abuse and neglect. He was so very fatigued from the nights and days of cleaning up her bile and the damage she inflicted on him and the trailer when she was angry. He never got to be angry or sad or depressed. Or happy. Hell, he didn't even know what that emotion was anymore thanks to her. He never got to ask for more from her as a parent. Never got to have more for himself.

He could feel something beginning to break inside of him. Something tragic and dangerous was ebbing forward from the confines of his imagination. This time, he couldn't stop it. This time, he didn't want to. He opened his arms. Wordlessly demanding that she take her best shot.

She moved forward to stare him in the eyes. She looked at him before bursting out in a fit of laughter of her own. “I would.” She started with a smile as she held the knife up to his throat. “But you're nothing. A nobody. And honestly, I ain't wasting another moment of my life on a nobody.” She punctuated her statement by throwing the knife on the ground. She side stepped him and began to walk back down the hill.

He snapped.

With a low chuckle he picked up the knife. She heard his footsteps behind her.

“Didn't I tell you to scram!” She exclaimed as she turned to face him. She never saw it coming. It was quick. He thought as her image began to get fuzzy. She was clutching her throat. Flabbergasted. He wasn't smiling anymore. He dropped the knife and went to hold her.

“Ma, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry.” He said as a warm sensation drew up his body starting at his feet. She fell to her knees and he dropped with her. Afraid to let her go. Afraid that she would slip away. “I didn't mean it. I didn't mean to do it. I'm sorry!” He cried.

“You're not sorry.” She wheezed, clenching her throat. “You're a killer. It's in your blood.”

She looked at him. There was no love in her gaze. Not an ounce of forgiveness. She looked at him with poison in her eyes. A jolt of endorphins caused him to laugh again and he tried to suffocate it with a gulp. He felt cold all over as her words sank in like tiny daggers all over his skin. He felt more unloved and alone than he had ever felt in that moment. He felt utterly unlovable and monstrous. Then he felt nothing. Suddenly, nothing mattered.

He was crying. Crying and laughing and he couldn't seem to stop himself. He held onto her prone body as she went lax. He was afraid to let go. He felt an odd sensation take hold of him. He was suffocating. He had to breath but he didn't want to. Even as his senses were pulled away, he couldn't bring his mind away from this moment. Not yet.

_Let go of her._ He tried to tell himself as the need to breathe seized him. He watched as that version of himself dropped his mother's body. He heard the heavy thud as her body fell to the ground. He watched himself kick her forward. She spun as she fell to join the bottle of whiskey at the base of the hill.

There were voices around him. Two people speaking frantically. He was being pulled away from this scene from his past but the words were still on his lips.

“Maybe you're right but you sure did deserve it.” And there it was. What he had been waiting for. That feeling of freedom and peace washed over him like cooling glacial waters. He inhaled deeply in his dream.

“He's holding his breath!” A woman's voice exclaimed from his side. She was pulling his arm. Trying to pull him out of...a chair? Yes, he had been sitting. “T-there's nothing I can do.”

A bright light burst before him as he opened his eyes. He squinted, trying to clear his blurry line of vision. “Shit! Breathe, kid!” A man's voice echoed from in front of him. A ball of red settled at the base of his line of focus. “Do you want to live or not?!”

Jerome gasped for air as he slumped forward. He fell onto the shorter man's shoulder and hung there for a moment unable to move his limbs.

“The helmet!” The woman's voice yelled. “Red, let him go! The process isn't finished.”

But it was too late. A bright red light enveloped him and Jerome yelled as electricity forced its way into his body.

Memories overwhelmed his thoughts. A young man with mousy brown hair and dark circles under his light eyes. Baghead. A friend. A friend named Jonathan. Jonathan Crane. He was a genius. They had escaped together. From Arkham. With someone else. Who? He couldn't remember. He had found a bag for Baghead after the guards confiscated his suit and his gas. When Baghead was still Jonathan but different...Scarecrow. Scarecrow was what he liked to be called. But he let Jerome call him Baghead. Only Jerome. Because J was his friend. That was his nickname. He remembered it now.

A top hat he had made it in Crafts. _Learning coping skills for real world scenarios. New ways to vent._Yes. Memories where coming back now. It was for the Mad Hatter. Jervis Tetch.

When he was in solitary confinement. Tetch didn't speak very often. Too much medication. Silently, he stared out the window as though he was far away. Lost in his mind. Until Jerome gave him a present via a guard. He was Jerome's friend too. He had given the redhead ice cream on the rare occasion it was handed out. Whenever he got it. When he was sure it was clean.

He had called Jerome Alice when he was medicated. Until he showed Tetch how to stop taking the medication. How and where to hide it.

They all escaped together. They made more acquaintances. Firefly. He remembered the smile on her face as he shot Carl. Jerome had wanted to make her happy. Why? He couldn't remember. Carl made him look bad. He couldn't remember how.

A human penguin. That person was even more blurry. He knew he didn't like him though. The human penguin was a traitor. Penguin was spineless. So his friends had tied him to one of the pipes on board. He chuckled at that thought.

His friends had escaped but how? He remembered now. He had kept the GCPD occupied so that they could get away. So that Gordon would keep his focus on him and not them. Like when he was a kid.

He remembered being shot now. Three times. The last was in the stomach. He had known it was fatal. So he fell. But Gordon came looking. They, his friends, they couldn't wait for him. They couldn't save him. Not with Jimbo watching. Waiting for him to end it. He had clung on to a pole. Jim Gordon reached for him. He didn't want to be saved by him. Why? He had been bleeding profusely. He felt sad. He was tired and depressed. That wasn't right. His plan had worked. Why was he sad?

Then he remembered that too. Bruce Wayne. The way he had looked at Jerome when they were on stage. That had made him feel.

Bruce's eyes had been melancholic. Bruce looked at him like he wanted to understand. This made Jerome upset. That one look had made him feel...validated. He hated to admit it. He felt slightly calmer now. Now that someone had listened.

Something had been off since he'd killed his uncle in the diner. He hadn't known why but now he did. Bruce had been watching. He had an inkling that day and Bruce had proved his theory correct. He had been changed.

That's why he wanted to die. Bruce Wayne had thrown a spanner in the works. The same way he had at the carnival. Now there was numbness in his chest. A heavy weight that he couldn't get rid of. Bruce had gazed at his suffering and didn't flinch. But that wasn't all. He looked...like he was trying to think of a way to...Jerome banished the though. It came around again against his best efforts.

Bruce looked at him like he was worth saving. Like he could be saved. As if he knew, some how, that deep down Jerome longed to be forgiven. How Jerome hated him for that. He welled with the strange desire to seek Bruce out.

_To kill him?_ He questioned himself. The thought of simply killing him lacked flare.

There was another flash of light and he found himself in another area. Trapped in another memory.

He was breathing heavy now. Panting as he clutched a machete to his chest. He stared at his reflection in the mirror in front of him. He didn't look like himself at all. He was a short man dressed in a tight black body suit with an open white trench coat. There were slashes in the body suit and he was bleeding steadily from his jawline and stomach. He couldn't make out his facial features from the slew of bruised and swollen masses. He could see a sliver of light from the door he was pressed against.

A dark haired woman was talking to two men in white uniforms. “It is wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Karlsen.” One of the men spoke as the other ogled her.

“No need to be so formal. Call me Lila.” She giggled, patting at the blond man's shoulder before giving it a squeeze. He gritted his teeth as a sickening feeling of jealousy hit him. She was his. They were made for each other. He didn't have time to ponder the thought as the weapon fell to his side. He swayed a little before steadying himself. He brought the steel back up to his waist, holding on to it. He was losing too much blood. He thought to himself. He had to hold on. He would live long enough to kill those men. He swore it.

“Listen, I won't tell your superiors about this mishap if you don't tell anyone that me and my old man got robbed on this very ship. We want our guests to feel save traveling with us. You must understand. We'll have to have this handled discretely.” She cooed causing Jerome to gag mentally. He recognized her voice and her frame. She looked younger than he remembered but he knew it was her. His mother.

“Of course! Of course, Mrs. Karlsen.” The other man said as he wiped sweat from his brow. He smiled at her nervously. There was an eagerness in the guy's gaze that made him uncomfortable.

“You boys are just the sweetest!” She said with sugar in her tone. “It would make me so happy if you could assist my husband. Sven, my knight in shining armor, tried to defend me. Bless his heart. He has severe injuries that are worrisome to say the least. Would you gentlemen mind helping me get him to the medical bay?” She moved from the door finally giving Jerome the opportunity to slay both of them. His vision blurred as he stepped forward.

Her grey-green eyes were the last thing he saw as he lost consciousness.

He stood quickly, pushing off from the man's shoulder as his vision began to settle. His knees buckled and he flopped back down into the chair.

“Take it easy, kid!” A short red haired man said, placing a palm in the center of Jerome's chest to keep him in place. Jerome swiped his hand away.

“Hands off short stack!” He said as he got up. His vision restored this time. He found himself in a small room filled with medical equipment and some things that he couldn't recall the names of. The room was circular and on the right side of him he saw a large elevator. He shook his head to rid himself of the mental fog.

“Okay.” The short man from his dream said through gritted teeth. The frame and haircut matched but he looked older. Jerome hoped it was a hallucination. A woman coughed from his side. She was short too with dirty blond hair and big blue eyes.

He returned to the man in front of him. He looked him over with a cruel smile. The older man stood before him. His back was straight and there was a deep smile on his face. “Hi to you too, Jerome.” He grinned.

“Hiya, Sven.” Jerome smiled dangerously. The short redheaded man broke out into laughter. He gripped his sides as he continued. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes. Jerome got bored quickly and turned away to find a weapon to bludgeon him with. He laughed mischievously at the thought.

“Stop looking for weapons, kid. You won't find any here.” The short man said after his laughing fit subsided. “Out of all of my memories, you got that one huh?”

“Mmm-hm.” Jerome stopped in his tracks as he caught sight of his body. He stepped down from the chair, moving to examine his corpse. He pointed, taken aback. “What happened to this guy?” He was laughing now. He should have known that this was some kind of hellish torture. He should have realized.

“That's you.” The woman piped up. “Well, one version of you. Look at yourself.” She said as she pulled a small mirror from her back pocket. She brought it over to him, holding it up to his face. His eyes widened to the size of saucers.

“That body was a clone made by a man named Hugo Strange. Dwight, I believe that was his name. Dwight picked it up from the re-animation zone in Strange's lab, I'm guessing. He couldn't have known the difference.” She spoke quickly.

Jerome moved the material of his suit out of the way to stare at his neck. There was a little, faded scar where Theo had stabbed him. He raised his eyebrow at that. The scar tissue around his face and eyes was gone as well and his lips were back to normal.

“We stole some of Hugo's equipment along with your body from Wayne Enterprises. I used some leftovers from Strange's stem cell research in conjunction with a cell regenerator to heal that wound in your neck before we brought you back. It takes a bit longer to stimulate cell growth in necrotic cells but you're body was well preserved. It's been about two days since you fell to your death. Do you remember that?”

“Uh-huh.” Jerome said as he examined his outfit. A two piece suit. His hair was still parted in the middle and the dark circles he had acquired from practicing his act relentlessly were firmly in place. The thought of that night made him laugh. They hadn't even processed his corpse properly. The medical examiner must have been eager to get him in the ground.

“So, all this for little ol' me?” He chuckled.

“And then some.” Arcade answered as he placed his hand on Jerome's shoulder. “I'm Arcade by the way. Tell me, Jerome, do you like games?”

“What did you have in mind?” Jerome grinned devilishly.


	4. Life is a Stage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry it took me so long to get this too you but life happened. So, this is going to be a Jerome and Jim centered chapter. Sorry I didn't give much of a description towards the end. It's all supposed to come together in the next chapter and I felt that if I added too much in to this chapter it would harm the one after it.

Jim pinched the bridge of his nose as he exhaled. It had been two weeks since the death of Jerome Valeska and yet the city was no calmer than it had been before. He had hoped that the city would return to normal or at least what was normal for Gotham anyway. But instead of their homespun form of normalcy the city was now plagued with murderers, gang members excited to carve up pieces of abandoned territory for themselves, bank robbers, cultists, the few remaining Arkham escapees that they hadn't been able to recapture and one mysterious vigilante. His caseload was full, to say the least. If there was one thing he could say about the clown prince of Arkham it was that he had been good at keeping certain types contained. 

The mobsters feared him, gang members were too afraid of his followers to move too far away from their territories and the others laid low out of fear of drawing too much attention to themselves. On top of all of this, he wasn't even sure if Valeska was still dead. He flipped through the pictures in the case file in his lap. 

Debris was all that was left of the ambulance. Someone had rigged it full of explosives. By the time cops were on the scene it was too late. The detail had disbanded somehow. Out of the four police cars that accompanied the ambulance only two cars had been found. One on the corner of Market and the other on 22nd. 

Five officers and two medics were still missing and the two bodies that they had found on the scene...had been eviscerated and mangled beyond recognition. He was still waiting for the results of the M.E.'s autopsy and the dental records to come back. 

Harvey had interviewed several people on the scene that morning but no one seemed to know anything. One witness said that she saw robotic cartoon characters disarm the officers and cart them away. A large rusted platypus with mechanical saws for teeth and a razor sharp tail attacked the two officers who opened fire. This witness, Margaret Plait, stated that the platypus was “dressed to impress”. Jim briefly wondered if she had spent any time in Arkham and why Bullock felt it necessary to take a witness statement from someone so clearly off their rocker. 

After going over it her story just didn't seem plausible. After all, how would so many others overlook a giant rat in a colorful jumpsuit with “vehicle killing” pom-poms in each hand, a tall skinny mouse with a baseball cap and a holster full of grenades on and two racoons in suits with loaded assault rifles. It didn't make any sense. She said, according to Harvey's notes, that they headed towards the river. They had sent out a search team but they didn't find so much as an out of place footprint. The dogs didn't catch anything either. They had seemed disoriented. He remembered the line of brown and black fur racing to form a line near the shore. They barked endlessly, circling as though they were lost. A few tried to run along the shoreline. It was clear that they were disoriented. Or maybe the ragtag band of cop kidnapping cartoon characters had carted them across the river. On the other side of the river the dogs didn't seem to catch anything at all which led him back to square one.

If her story was true then he wondered who had sent them? The toy maker was dead and he couldn't think of any criminals with the same inclinations. Also, what would they want with Jerome Valeska's body? He thought about it. Most of Valeska's followers were anarchists. They didn't have the mechanical know-how to build robots to commit crimes. He sighed again.

The new mayor had instructed him to keep everything under wraps. The media was kept in the dark. As far as they knew junkies had robbed the ambulance and police cars had been following one of the fugitive escapees. The citizens that lingered along the sides of the street that night saw Jerome's body carted away in Ambulance #19. They had no idea that the vehicle was switched. The only way anyone would know was if they had followed the ambulance. That type of attention would have put the detail on high alert. 

Jim didn't understand why they didn't radio in. Then suddenly, a thought flickered. 

Car killing pom-poms. 

Nygma had talked about electrical waves and pulses a few times in the past. Jim closed his eyes trying to jump start the memory. He was examining the body of a murder victim. Sixty-one years old, five foot four, female. The murderer had used some kind of bio-electronic resonator to kill her. One jolt threw her biorhythm off it's normal course but it was the second jolt that caused her heart to fail.

“Fun fact, with a large enough electromagnetic pulse you can stop a whole city from operating. All the vehicles, electronic equipment, streetlights, power grids, you name it. It would stop.” Nygma had said. 

They would have never known it was murder. If it hadn't been for the rectangular pads of scorched flesh on her wrists that surrounded each injection mark like small frames. But her killer, to his knowledge had died in Blackgate and as far as Jim knew there were few people in Gotham with that type of skill and knowledge.

Nygma could have done it but for what purpose? Also, there were no riddles or question marks left at the crime scene. He straightened his back as another thought came to him. Perhaps, Jerome's twin was the culprit. He thought quietly to himself for another moment. He had followed this line of thought before. The morning the body went missing. Due to this, he had kept an eye on Jeremiah. Over the past two weeks he hadn't left the bunker. His only visitors in that time span had been Ecco and Bruce Wayne. Ecco hadn't left the bunker for some time. He couldn't imagine Bruce would keep something like this from him if the boy knew anything. He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. 

The mayor was pushing for them to bury a body. To give the city peace. He had asked the medical examiner's office to hold off on their autopsy but he didn't know how long he could keep them from asking questions. A John Doe matching Valeska's description. That's what the city needed, he thought. They all needed closure. He felt guilty for hiding this from Bruce but what was he to do? If he made the news public, there would be wide spread panic. The citizens of Gotham would have more to fear than the threat of common thugs. He had been convinced that this was the best option.

After all, if he told Bruce he couldn't guarantee that the young man wouldn't go looking for the person or people responsible. Much more, if Valeska was alive he couldn't be certain that Bruce would leave it to him to bring the deranged psychopath to justice yet again. Which would put Bruce in more danger. Bruce's face crossed his mind. The way the young man had looked at him that night. His blue eyes glassy and sorrowful; the look of betrayal. Bruce had done his best to hide it but Jim had seen it. He was sure of it. Sure as Barbara was crazy.

Bruce was a sensitive goodhearted kid. For as long as Jim had known him he had been that way. Jim knew that men like Jerome Valeska would never be good law abiding citizens. It wasn't in their nature. One day, he hoped, Bruce would understand what was at stake and why another visit to Arkham wasn't possible for that particular madman. Maybe Bruce could understand why Jim had to do what he did. Maybe he could forgive him. Whether Bruce chose to forgive him or not, he had to represent law and order. He had to do his job. Tomorrow, he would visit Jeremiah Valeska. 

Jim swallowed thickly as he pulled his paper cup from the cup holder. He took a long drink of hot coffee. Bruce had been through enough pain. No, he would have to figure this out on his own. 

Luckily, local reports were still riding high on the details of what had occurred earlier that day and the slew of mayhem that had ensued. The stolen blimp and the ruined concert. Now they had more rumors to churn out with the missing cops and the medical equipment stealing drug addicts. Eventually, people would begin to talk. He hoped that he would have the case figured out by then but for now he had to talk to Lee. One case at a time. He reminded himself as he opened the car door. He would revisit the photos after he spoke with her about the bank robberies.

Xxxxxx

Theo Galavan was many things. He was a manipulative zealot with high expectations and high aspirations. But most of all he had been a good teacher. Skilled in the art of influence and deception. Avid was his propensity for violence and though he had been delicate in physique he was quick and agile. Not only this, Galavan had bestowed him with the toolkit of skills useful to those already blessed with a high level of charisma. He had passed on a basic knowledge of fine art, literature, politics and business. Though, Jerome was sure, Galavan hadn't thought he was paying attention. The cunning businessman had taught him many things. That the young man had come to understand. 

He had learned a lot about the world; its beauty, brutality and it's poetically comical sense of justice from several people. Galavan included. But life was the greatest of all teachers in his eyes. 

During the early stages of his development he had thought of the world as a beautiful and curious place. It was filled with light and love and many things to be curious about. From the sensation of cooling currents against the pads of his small feet to the feeling of satisfaction when one skipped a rock perfectly. 

Yes, he had learned how beautiful the world was and just how magnificently enigmatic life was. He could hear it in the roar of the crowd when the tight rope walkers made it to the other side as deftly and as gracefully as they had started the routine. 

He felt it in the sound of his own pounding heartbeat as he raced Jeremiah through the circus camp, under tables, dodging caravans and trailers and hopping over makeshift obstacles. He could smell it in the air as he took the first celebratory inhalation of victory. With his hands pressed against his knees and his back concave. Yes, he could even taste it. It was in the sweetness of his uncle's snicker doodle cookies. Life was as sweet as they were and he had known nothing else but the simple pleasures that it could offer. But life was nothing without change. It was the sheer essence of all things. Change. 

Trees were uprooted from the quietest spots of the forest to make way for new cities, parks and cul-de-sacs filled with the cancerous legions of mundanely conditioned humanity. The birds lost their homes and their nesting grounds to make way for these civilized colonies. What they lost, they gained in artificial food, discarded and dirty. The cornucopia of mother nature now filled with rot and pestilence, their stomach's were swollen now. Swollen, teeming with parasites and maggots. Their bodies were full of viruses and their feathers fell as the necrotic festering tissue forced it's way to the top. The world was sour. It was spoiled and bitter like the smell of booze and bile. 

The stream frothed now with green sludge and the remnants of too many broken dreams and false starts in the form of broken bottles and discarded condoms. The real tragedies lay at the bottom. Hidden in the murky waters were lost and damaged souls who jutted out like shards of broken glass. Sharp enough to cut through skin and sinew. Serpentine devils lurked in the underbrush, waiting for their next meal. Waiting to wrap an adventurous swimmer in it's death grip like a taboo circus act; a child training with an angry snake. The salmon that once swam freely were belly up. They suffocated under the aquatic smog like kids who suffocated under the vice-like grip of oppressive domineering parents. Like a child born in the circus with no prospects and no future. 

In metropolitan cities, the poor lived and died without so much as a pair of batted lashes. Their lives were much like that of a bird. Fighting for discarded scraps, eking out a living in the hopes of one day hitting it big, too simple to grasp that they are festering, suffocating under the sludge and smog of the rich and the powerful. Their deaths didn't matter. Their lives didn't matter. Not their excitement, exhilaration or suffering could illicit any sympathy from life. It would divvy out uneven shares of happiness and hopelessness to everyone, silently prepping them for their final scene. An Ode to Death. But Jerome could care less about it. He had performed that act twice now. The audience had called him back. Life begged him for another act and he was happy to oblige. Even if he hadn't gotten the costars he had hoped for. He was the star of the show. Life had made it clear that Gotham was his circus and boy did he have some acts in mind. 

Jerome yawned as he lounged back against the steep curve of a fibrous vine. Arcade wrestled the police officer to the ground. He jabbed the officer in the face before he could strike out with the knife. Jerome continued to read the discarded book. Most rich people read to relax themselves but as he had watched Bruce from the greenhouse that day, the brunette looked anything but relaxed.

Jerome sighed happily as he thought of all the fun he would have with Brucie soon. He scoffed as he processed a peculiar line of text. Sometimes he really wondered about Bruce's mental health. He rubbed his temples as the searing pain of a migraine pulsed through his skull. That seemed to happen more frequently with this book in his hands. He had no interest in the actual content. Most books were boring. Some people wasted their whole lives sitting at a table to write out a manuscript instead of actually answering the call of life. Someone had to, he supposed. And if it got the motors going who was he to judge? He threw the book to the floor, deciding that he'd had enough of it. 

Arcade grabbed the man by his ears. The officers body was drawn up close before Arcade gave one sharp twist; effectively snapping the officer's neck. 

“Usually I don't get my hands dirty but in order to teach the techniques of Muay Thai, one must.” Arcade started as he turned to face the frightened medic cowering in the corner of the room.

“Though a gun is kinda a let down, I can think of a few cases where it comes in handy. It's clean for sure and does it pack a real wallop! Unless you can build a world to murder your victims. Then do that.” He rose to his feet. He signaled for Jerome to stand before he kicked the knife over to the medic. 

“Blah, blah, blah” Jerome mimicked as he rolled his yes. “I'm so bored!” 

“Seriously?!” Arcade exclaimed, running his hands through his graying hair. “I kidnapped five cops and two medics for you. Most budding serial killers would be belated.” 

“Yeah, well, I popped that cork a looong time ago. Two medics and five terrified cops ain't gonna cut it. But you get a C plus for effort.” Jerome laughed as he stretched. Arcade gritted his teeth and released a long sigh of exacerbation. “Also, I'm a messiah and a little offended by this charade.” 

“Offended?” Arcade asked in disbelief. “I am making the effort to teach you some of the most difficult of martial arts and you're offended.” Jerome yawned again. 

“Fine, if you can kill the last one then I'll drop this.” Arcade smirked. “But make it good. Do it with style.” Jerome smiled at that. 

“By the way, I prefer knives.” Jerome smiled deeply. “Sharp and shiny.” Arcade chuckled with a nod. 

“Well, let's see you get the knife out of that guys hand.” Arcade said. “Hey, it's your turn!” He yelled at the medic. The man was about the same height as Arcade but robust and ruddy in complexion. He rocked back and forth in his corner. 

Every now and again he would pull at the sparse brown hairs on his head. His wide dark eyes were shrouded in tears as he tried to conceal his chubby face with his knees. The blue pant legs of his uniform stretched tightly with each movement. As he rocked back, the fabric around his ankles would follow, revealing his mismatched socks. 

“No, no, no,” He whispered clenching at his skull. “No more. No more. Please god! Someone get me out of here!” He continued as he avoided eye contact. Jerome sighed deeply as Arcade's stare turned murderous. 

“You attract more bears with honey.” Jerome said with a slight grin. “Yoohooo! Medic guy. What's your name?” The brown haired man seemed to shrink into himself even more. Jerome advanced a little just to see what would happen. The medic tried to edge closer to the wall. Jerome laughed deeply. This would be a piece of cake.

“That's no way to have a polite conversation, buddy.” He said. “Okay, how about this. If you can stab me once, I'll let you leave this place. Alive. I'll even give you a freebie.” He laughed as he extended his arms, he kept walking towards the terrified captive. 

“W-what?” The man uttered with a shaky breath.

“Low and behold, it can talk.” Jerome said pointedly at Arcade. Jerome could tell he was grinding his teeth and that just made him smile more. “You can leave. Go back to your boring little life transporting the sick, dead and dying. If you can stab me that is.” He grinned at the medic. The man gulped and hid his face behind his knees. 

“C'mon, buddy.” Jerome sighed as he reached down, pulling the rotund man to his feet and wiping off the back of his navy blue uniform. He straightened the man's collar before placing his hands on his shoulders. “Give us a smile!” He grinned down into the whimpering man's face. The man gave in to a fit of sobs, causing Jerome to roll his eyes yet again. 

“Listen,” Jerome said as he examined the man's medical badge. “Barry G.” He let go of his shoulders before leaning in. He cast a look at Arcade before rekindling his focus. “You were kidnapped and tortured. You're still being tortured. Here I am offering you a way out. And yet you snivel and you cry.” He picked a small piece of lint from the man's shirt. 

“Don't you want to know what it feels like?” Jerome said as he walked away before whirling around theatrically. “To be free? Look at yourself, Barry.” He said drawing his hand forward to motion at the man's bloody clothing and mangled face. “Don't you just want to carve the smile off of my face? I can tell by looking at you that you're not really the type to get even.” Jerome laughed  
loudly. “But I can see inside you, Barry. Aren't you just a little...mad?” That was it. Jerome smiled knowingly as he watched something dark come to life in the fat man's beady eyes. Barry sniffed lightly as he looked between Jerome and the knife with intent.

“I'm gonna sum up your life for ya.” Jerome said as he eased closed. “You were always the chonky kid. Got picked on a lot. Probably beaten up a lot too. Ya had or have a sick ma'. She's been that way most of your life. That's why you're a medic. So, the other kids wouldn't play with you. You had to fight harder for their attention and girls. Jeez, don't get me started. The jezebels wouldn't even give you a second glance. Even now, at 40-ish. You still get pushed around, stomped on and overlooked. Am I right?” Jerome finished as a familiar electricity began to course through him. He was near shivering with anticipation. Barry was paying attention now. All the forming tears evaporated from his eyes as he glared at the younger man. 

“That's rhetorical by the way. I already the know the answer.” Jerome said as he turned away. He could hear the metallic edge sliding across the floor as Barry picked up the knife. “But if they could only see what's bouncin' 'round in that old noggin. I bet it would scare them shitless, huh?” Arcade looked at him with amusement as he crossed his arms and leaned against a low vine. 

“Ya' got a real twisted side don't cha? Barry, I can see him and I'll tell ya,” Jerome said as he heard the man's lumbering footsteps coming closer. “He's a doozy.” Jerome finished as he turned around just as Barry lunged. With one smooth move he kicked Barry in his left leg. He brought his left arm over to protect his body while using that hand to twist Barry's wrist until it snapped. The medic howled in pain as his grip went slack. Jerome grabbed the knife as it slid through the air. Without any further thought, he plunged it deep between one of Barry's ribs with a laugh. The medic spluttered as he looked up at him with wide eyes. 

“I'm proud of you, Barry G. You faced your fear.” Jerome said as he twisted the knife, watching as the medic's eyes became unfocused. He wrenched the weapon free from the kneeling medic's lifeless body before kicking Barry back with his right foot. With another chuckle he brandished the knife. “Easier than taking candy from a rich kid.” 

“What?” Arcade said with a raised eyebrow.

“What?” Jerome repeated casually as he threw the knife over his shoulder. He relished in the sound of it sinking into what was once Barry G. He thought of dragging the blade across the smooth skin of someone else before he was pulled from his thought.

“Looks like today is moving day after all.” Arcade said with a light clap. “I know you've been itchin' to get outside, kid. Ready to cause a little mayhem.” He pulled his white coat on slowly before retrieving his fluted cane. 

“What could have given you that idea?” Jerome said sarcastically as he went to retrieve Bruce's book. “Who doesn't love an early retirement.” He chuckled to himself. Arcade yawned nonchalantly. 

Jerome lay in his bed bouncing a red rubber ball against the ceiling of the four poster in exasperation. Arcade had moved them into a gracious property. It was a manor in it's own right. Old and regal in appearance but not quite Jerome's taste. Too many high gilded ceilings. He would never understand why rich people chose to spend large amounts of money on objects that would just collect dust and were hard to clean. He sighed deeply to himself. 

There were rooms and bathrooms on every floor. Each room was like a one bedroom apartment minus the kitchen. There was a giant pool in the backyard and the land behind it seemed to stretch on quite aways until it reached a heavy treeline. An empty atrium in the center. The study, as Arcade called it was a huge circular room with bookcases embedded in the walls a quarter of the way down from the ceiling to the floor. The library was even bigger and filled with the smell of parchment and ink. The basement was split into different areas consisting of a wine cellar, a room for smoking meats, one for pickling foods, a panic room that led to a subterranean dungeon that hid a long looping staircase to some long forgotten place. There was a lab down there as well with medical equipment buried under thick layers of dust. On the main floor there was a ballroom off of the side of the house, overlooking the garden and miniature labyrinth. The kitchen wasn't modest either. It made the kitchen in Theo's grandiose penthouse look middle-class. And the small kitchen in his mother's trailer looked like a dingy hovel in hindsight. 

Jerome didn't really care for super fancy objects. He didn't care about gold or silver or any of the opulence present. What really made the place interesting in his mind was it's location. He smiled to himself as his alarm clock rang. He rose to his feet as the sun slipped away and the periwinkle sky turned lilac with dusk. He grabbed his jacket as he began to whistle. The sound of a car edging closer softly filled the silent air. He sang a happy tune as he closed his door and walked to the staircase. He was singing as he entered the foyer. He waved gently as he watched June run past him in a fluster. He patted his left pocket to make sure the book was there as he exited the manor. He took one look at the pretentious property as he hit a button on his wrist watch. He couldn't think of this place as home. Truthfully, he had never really had much of one. But it provided him with the perfect vantage point. 

He turned around as the car drew down the street, closer it came. He stepped forward as his car made it's slow progression around the statue in the center of the yard. He walked around the centerpiece to the driver's side as the car came down the street. He turned towards the road pretending to fumble with his keys. The car made it's way up to the gate, a sleek gray blur before it stopped abruptly. The keys fell from his hands and he bent to pick them up. He smiled wide to himself as he straightened. This house was in the perfect location for him to hunt his favorite person, his favorite volunteer, Bruce Wayne. He looked at the black tinted glass of the vehicle on the other side of the sliding gate. He waved with a smile before turning away to get in his car. The vehicle edged forward before stopping again and backing up to the gate. The gate slid open as he put the car in drive. He ran a hand through his well-sculpted and meticulously placed blond wig before peeling off of the property. He honked his horn with a laugh. The window of the other vehicle slid down slowly and like a downloading picture, Bruce's surprised yet pouting face appeared on the driver's side. He suppressed another laugh as he lowered his own. 

“Hey, buddy. Could you move? I'm trying to get out.” He said before pulling his head back and rolling up the window. Bruce continued to stare at him wordlessly. 

“Oh! Yeah, my apologies.” Bruce mumbled. Slowly, the window drew up until he could only see the brunette's hair. He pulled forward just enough to let him out.

He had been toying with the young man for a few days now. Before, when they were still in the greenhouse, he would position himself at the top of the hill in the morning. Shortly after Bruce would come out onto the balcony. He stretched and arched like a black bat about to take flight as he yawned and Jerome would watch in anticipation. Eventually Bruce's vision always adjusted and for a long time they would stare at each other. Bruce's face contorted with dismay. Jerome would smile and wave just before Bruce darted behind the billowing curtains. No doubt to get Alfred. But Jerome was never there for that part. He would leave only to return sometime in the wee hours of the night. Getting around the dogs wasn't easy but he'd averted worse. The security system sucked. He'd wait for the lights to go out and then he made his move, up the trellis to hover just on the side of the window. 

Bruce was a hardened kid. Jerome had known that the minute he laid eyes on him and in his sleep he looked ten years older. Bruce was a twitchy sleeper too. So, Jerome out of the kindness of his shriveled black heart had decided to help. For two nights now, he'd crept in to Bruce's room. For two nights he'd whispered to him, stroked his hair gently in a brotherly way. He stayed just until the twitching stopped and with a fond farewell he left. Tonight, he wouldn't stop by. Tonight, he would let Bruce suffer just to see what reaction he'd get the next time he visited. He suppressed a grin as the anticipation sent jolts of electricity up his spine. 

He had other things planned now. He had been studying and crafting for the better part of a week. Tonight, he would be visiting another friend. The term, friend was used lightly in this case.


	5. Chasing Phantoms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arcade ponders the past and Bruce can't sleep. Alfred is worried and Jeremiah is a mystery. What's a young super hero to do when a fictitious enemy may be high jacking his body? Who can say...

“Where are you going? My Serotonin...  
It's hard to focus without oxytocin...  
Love is an ocean I can't control.” - Call Me Karizma 

Arcade wandered through the empty corridor in a trance. As the weeks progressed he found himself contemplating the past more than ever before. He wondered how different his life would have been if he had chosen the road of least resistance. The road least traveled had given him an immense reputation. But the cold and debilitating loneliness that he felt on occasion didn't seem worth it in hindsight. He had never felt those emotions before meeting...her. 

When he was a young man it was simple. When he needed to attract people he had done it with ease. When he was finished with them it was just as easy for him to detach and discard the husks that were left. If he ever struggled with a basic human desire such as: order, acceptance, family or sex he had had little to no trouble forcing them into the deepest pit of his subconscious until they could prove useful to him. And useful they were.

From the wellspring of order came the urgency of his longing to lead. He led hundreds of independent assassins and countless henchman into the business that he had achieved glory through. 

Out of the abyss created by acceptance he had formed a community of these men and women, all of which were thirsty for the dark delights that only he could provide. 

As for sex and family, well, Arcade had thought that he had destroyed the latter and found use for the primary. After all, he had become adept at the art of seduction. Charming was he in all of his adventures with the opposite sex. As for family, he had attempted to murder that piteous yearning. When he killed his father it should have ceased to exist. It should have died honorably with that man's last breath. How was he to know that it had held on, waiting to attach itself to something else. Or in this case. To someone else. 

Arcade doesn't remember the exact date he met her. He doesn't remember the weather outside or what he had been doing before. What he remembers is walking to the camera feed of his first installation to Murderworld: Manhattan. He remembers her laying on the floor of his pinball machine. She was still a rusty redhead then, tall, sylphlike and dressed in ratty street clothes.  
He recalls watching her rise sluggishly before she examined what she had fallen onto. He watched her with enthusiasm. He examined her every feature to spot the slightest indication of fear.

He remembers the slight chill that rose up his back as she stared at the hidden camera he had installed. The other cameras had been methodically placed for his viewers but the one that he watched her through, that was for his own amusement. She smiled at it before drawing two fingers to her temple like a makeshift gun. Blow me away. She mouthed before pulling the trigger. Arcade remembers the excited tremors that settled in his fingertips and toes. He remembers the electricity that she encouraged with her sky-blue gaze. The same electricity that came alive inside of him in her presence.

He thought for some time about giving in to her wish before he released his first robot under the pretense of testing. She took it down fairly easily to his chagrin. The game escalated quickly as he realized that she was a talker. He hated talkers. 

Yes, Arcade doesn't remember very much before Lucy. But he's haunted by everything after. He didn't think much of the little lady when he first saw her, when she first fell into his web. She was tall and gangly, boyishly dressed and dripping, saturated with the air of teen angst and the trauma of an existential crisis he couldn't fathom. Needless to say, he had no idea what he was getting himself into. 

He remembers the anger he felt while watching her dodge and disable his robot. He lingers on the surging ire that formed as she taunted him. 

“I heard you're the best of the best!” She laughed as she stood on top of the bot's fuming chest. “Yet you can't kill a teenage girl with an air gun. What's wrong with you?” 

He unleashed three more in swift retaliation for her comments. He watched as she jumped with the deft skill of an agile cat. She blocked them with ease and used the air gun to disable them one by one. He didn't even know who she was then. He hadn't cared to know her. As far as he was concerned she was a lab rat. A lab rat that knew it was in a maze. 

“For a guy named Arcade you aren't very much fun. You suck!” The little heathen exclaimed as she raised her index fingers to flip him off. He recalls laughing at her ineptitude. 

“You're using the wrong fingers, sweetheart. I ain't happy to see you but I'm glad you came!” Arcade shouted over the PA system. He gritted his teeth as he spoke but his voice carried a small hint of his internal amusement. She looked at her fingers perplexed for a moment before lifting her pinky fingers. 

“Still the wrong fingers, love bunch.” He laughed with ease as his index finger hovered over the 'initiate' button of the pinball machine. She was young but just how young he wasn't sure. It was a part of his personal policy not to kill people under a certain age. If he had had to guess then he would have said she was sixteen certainly above his age minimum. 

“Tell me, how old are you sweetheart?” He cooed as an onslaught of robots rushed from their hiding places and the mechanism sprang to life in a series of bright colors and loud sounds. To his wonder she smiled a sick smile as they attacked. She rushed up the wall and on to the top surface of his mechanism. The flashing lights should have blinded her but instead she seemed to glow under the iridescent lighting. 

'Wouldn't you like to know, you old creep.” She snidely spoke with a wink. She dodged air bombs and grenades as she ran over and across the landscape. The bag she had slung over her shoulder made an awkward sloshing sound. He hadn't recognized the sound at first, not until she reached inside. She threw a few water balloons in the air, two large blue ones and one small red one. When the balloons collided with the metallic floor it turned into a small field of ice which clung to his miniscule robotic army. He audibly cursed his lot when she smiled and waved at him. 

“That's not nice.” He continued. Arcade doesn't know when he started to really look at her. He can't remember if it was her first visit or the second or perhaps the third. 

“I'm twenty-three. Since you seem so excited to meet me and I've been nothing but hospitable maybe you can indulge me a little.” 

“Why does it matter?” She snaps, looking up at the big camera but only for a moment. She reminded him of Art Nouveau. Of candy canes and eggnog. Her hair swirled into ringlets that cupped her ears and the close cut bowl shape of her hair looked like a horrible haircut for a young woman. Her pale lashes were thick and for a moment the freckles that spread across her nose and cheeks were like dead stars across an infinite galaxy. He thinks, even now, this was the moment when he began to feel the familiar sparks of attraction.

She made him feel foolish by not playing along; by refusing to make small talk. She made him angry with her taunting. And how bashful he felt. Foolish for playing this game with her. Foolish for allowing her the privilege of testing out his amusement park. He felt embarrassed by his desire to know her age. He was excited to see how she would fair when his world was complete. If she could live that long. He was giddy, enticed by this game she had initiated. He was agitated because he was losing. And yet... he liked it. 

“I'm seventeen.” She responded firmly from a spot just out of his line of vision. 

“Shouldn't you be out with your friends boogie'n down at a roller rink somewhere?” Arcade said as he began to flip through the cameras desperate to locate her. He checked his watch and thought there was no way she could have found the secret exit. 

“I mean a girl your age must have friends. Maybe a boyfriend.” Arcade continued as he adjusted the cameras. He looked around his arena, but the young woman was nowhere to be seen. He laughed for a moment before the realization set in. Red alarms flashed around hazard lights on the screen. He was out of robots. She'd dismantled the firing mechanism for the pin balls with her makeshift ice grenades and the lights in the center display had been severely damaged. He pinched the bridge of his nose. He wouldn't have much time to repair it all. But at least his headache was gone. 

“I don't have any.” A feminine voice echoed from above. “No boyfriends either. Boys are strange.” She said and it sounded as though she were behind him. He whirled around to find that she wasn't there. 

“That's good for me. No one will miss you when you're gone.” He said as he reached for his cane. “Say, where are you?” 

“Wouldn't you like to know?” She teased from far away. “Wait. I think one of you robots shot me.”  
Her voice held a light astonishment and an element of humor. He held his cane up defensively as he stalked around his lair, trying to track her down. 

“I still have time.” She said more to herself than to him.

“Time for what? He darted behind the towering processor only to find that she wasn't there.

“I never got to ask you why you do this.” she said breathing heavily. 

“Do what exactly?” He asked as he looked above him. He thought briefly about her being in the air duct before he dismissed the idea. She would have had to crawl a great distance and he was sure she couldn't accomplish such a feat wounded. 

“Kill people. Why'd you build this place?” She asked as her breaths became audible. 

“I'll answer you if you tell me where you are. We can end this quickly.” Arcade bargained as he crept around his development floor. 

“My name is Lucy by the way. Not sweetheart or any of those things you've been calling me. That would ruin the surprise. Whoops. Watch out.” She said before giving in to laughter. He didn't have time to question her as bright marbles bounced onto the floor, some settled near his feet. He only had a moment to admire the colors before they burst. He jumped to escape the ring of fire that they created. Unfortunately he was too late, they began to climb up his pant legs. He tried to pat himself down but they didn't abate in the slightest. He unbuckled his pants and threw them aside. He stood on top of his ivory control panel with half a white suit on, in his white boxers and platform shoes feeling every bit as small as his stature indicated. 

“I have had enough of this!” He exclaimed as he hoped down into the smoldering embers of his expensive dress pants. “I will blow this place to smithereens if you don't tell me where you are hiding! You want to die? Want me to blow you away? I'll blow you away.” He ranted as he walked over to the control panel. His left eye twitched from the exacerbation of dealing with her. 

“How did you know about this place? About me?!” He shouted as he entered the initiate code for the self destruct feature that he'd built in to the system control board. “Answer now!” 

The room was silent now save for the low sound of alarms and for a moment he figured that perhaps she had bled to death. He stopped himself from entering the final number. 

“Lucy? Where are you?” He finds the words coming out of his mouth before he can stop them. There is a sense of something, a surprise he believes edging up from his core, surging through his nerves. He doesn't know what to call it but he remembers feeling it once while watching a horror film with his mother. He thinks it's fear and the idea alone is enough to turn his stomach. 

“Lucy!” He screams as he walks away from the console, eyeing the air duct overhead. The feeling punches him in the stomach and he wants to throw up. 

“Arcade?” Her voice is faint and for moment she sounds like a small child. Arcade never cared for children. The sound of yapping brats made him uncomfortable but to hear her sound so afraid, so innocent, it causes his blood to grow cold. He should have left. He should have had one of his henchman retrieve her cold corpse days later. He knows that now but he is happy in a bitter way, happy that he didn't. 

“I'm scared.” She near whispers. He thinks he was crimson red before he met her. He was bold, brave and so full of savage yet scientific bravado. 

He was brazen, boastful and brutal but when he pulled her out of the air duct. When he held that blue little girl he turned purple and there was no going back for him after that. He remembers her blood on his fingertips, seeping into his boxers as it trailed from her hip to his, binding them together. 

“You're a real screwball, you know that?” He says through gritted teeth as he sits his cane down on the ground, placing his hand over her bleeding hip. She laughs at him and his cheeks turn red for what feels like the first time ever. Her breath blows across his neck slightly and he can't help but enjoy the feeling. “I-it's a flesh wound. You'll be fine-aahh!” He tries to ease her worries but before he can finish his sentence there is a screwdriver sticking out of his hip. 

“There, now we match.” She smiles as betrayal contorts his features. And then she kisses him. And he's never been the same. 

“He shot her!” June exclaimed as she paced in circles behind him. “You said that he was the sane one but you knew didn't you?” She was biting her fingernails again. He could tell without turning to meet her eyes. He sighed deeply as the sound of clicking filled the gaps between each sentence as it left her lips.

“Shot who?” Arcade asked as he pulled out his chair lazily. He was in the library but he had no recollection of walking there. He doesn't remember pulling out the book in the center of the oak table either. He doesn't remember much past waking up that morning and sliding into his attire. 

“The girl you asked me to talk to. A doctor left last night. Not a normal one either.” She said as she drew closer behind him. “We have to get her out of there. Why would he shoot her? It doesn't make any sense.” 

Arcade listens to her speak but he's years away. The shadows of sunlight coat his face before they disappear behind a thick blanket of clouds. On the veranda just outside the window he swears he can see someone staring back at him. His vision adjusts as a familiar ghost places two fingers to her temple. With lips dewy from butterscotch flavored lip balm she mouths the words that he has never been able to forget. Blow me away. Just as quickly as she came, with the rolling of another set of clouds, she's gone. 

“She's alive then.” He says simply as he gently lifts the tattered book from the table. 

“What?” June asked after some silence fell between them. 

“He didn't kill her.” Arcade says as he turns around to face her. She looks away after examining his face. 

“How can you be sure of that?” June shouts this time, secretly hoping to break through the malaise present in his features. Arcade sighs deeply. He knows that the girl in question is alive. He doesn't know how but he knows. He desires to share this intuition with June but his thoughts feel jumbled. They are racing to the finish line and he is not certain which will come first. Instead of speaking he preoccupied himself with her question until a relevant thought finally bubbled to the surface. 

Because...he's like his grandfather. For Arcade, the thought is more than worrying. It is maddening. 

Each day Bruce felt less and less like himself. The facade that he had carefully developed was beginning to crack but only he could see the hairline fractures. Alfred didn't seem to notice the difference in his smile or the sadness that had crept into his gaze. Selina didn't notice the dark half moons developing under his eyes. How could they not hear the whistle as the wind blew through his bird-like ribcage. He was so very fatigued. 

Over the past couple of weeks he had developed a severe case of insomnia. This disorder had made friends with his demons and each day it found a new way to torture him. From walking past the ghost of his mother in the hall to seeing his father at his desk in Thomas' study. He pretended not to notice them since their presence was a very rare occurrence. 

It began with Jerome. For almost a week, every time he rose and walked onto his balcony he was greeted with the image of Jerome Valeska waving at him from the peak of the hill behind the manor. As his vision finally focused the ghost would always disappear which left him confused and on edge. Some mornings he would go to investigate but he never found anything. There was no trace of him and the grass seemed undisturbed. Lately, he woke to the sound of a familiar voice and an image that chilled him to the bone. He always found himself alone but ...not for very long.

The ghost of the ex-maniax member had begun to visit him inside his home. He felt the redhead's presence next to him after sleep had enveloped him in a deep embrace. He saw him in his dreams. His bloody gloved fingertips slipping slowly from a steel pipe and a smile on his scarred face though fatigue had crept in turning his psychotic gaze in to one of weariness. Bruce hung over the ledge with arms outstretched to save him but he always failed. In every dream, Jerome fell. He toppled on stage with a knife in his throat. He fell with a smile on his face. His body lay on the floor in the arboretum. Each night he died and Bruce woke in the morning feeling as though he had never slept. He understands that something has changed in him but he isn't sure what or how much has changed. He feels the same except for the sleeplessness and the visions. He wants to tell Alfred about it but he has one more reason to keep quiet now. 

He no longer knew when he was asleep or awake. The two states seemed to blend together and they used one particular phantom as their focal point. 

Jerome beckoned him up the stairs as Alfred's voice faded into the backdrop. Today he is dressed in the same suit he died in. His eyes are dark and his gaze is shark-like with it's predatory intensity. 

“Master B?” Alfred said as he placed a hand on Bruce's shoulder pulling him back in to the waking world. 

“Yes, Alfred?” Bruce said as he stared into the hall at the top of the stairs. He stared blankly at his butler as he turned mechanically. 

“What's in the box?” Alfred said as he rocked on his toes. He placed his hands behind his back and a small smile on his lips but Bruce knew the sound of concern when he heard it. 

“It's some stuff that Jeremiah wanted me to look over. A small proto-type for another project, a few notes and the blueprints for the energy source.” Bruce said automatically before wondering if he should have lied. He had begun to spend more and more time with Jeremiah. As much time as Jeremiah would allow that is. Collectively, they had only spent about 42 hours together rationed out over the span of two weeks. 

Jeremiah was very different then Jerome from what Bruce could tell. He was introspective and taciturn. Jeremiah was intellectually gifted with an appealing air of awkwardness. Bruce had seen in it in other intellectuals. Socially restrained classmates and geeks as some may call them. While he never thought much of them he thought a lot about Jeremiah. The chaos in his head was soothed by the young genius's voice. He was honored to be a part of Jeremiah's inner world but he was also concerned. 

Ecco had fallen ill recently and Jeremiah seemed to be adversely effected by the loss of her presence. He assured Bruce that she would make a speedy recovery and Bruce hoped she would. Jeremiah seemed worried and sometimes his voice became strangled with emotion when he discussed any portion of the project that she had assisted him with. 

Bruce sighed deeply as Alfred spoke in the background. Jeremiah was such a fascinating individual. He was a very private and distinguished man. The type of friend Bruce knew his parent's would approve of. Bruce ran one hand through his hair in thought. So what if he was the brother of a deceased terrorist. It wasn't like he was responsible for his brother's crimes. He was not-

“Jerome Valeska?” Alfred said as he reached to touch the box. Bruce shrugged his hand away absentmindedly. 

“What?” He said as he climbed the first stair. 

“I said, you've been acting strangely since the debacle with Jerome Valeska. Seriously, what's going on with you, Master B?” Alfred remarked after clearing his throat. 

“I'm fine, Alfred. I guess I just haven't been sleeping very much.” Bruce confided as he placed his hand atop the box. He'd been having strange dreams lately if they could be considered dreams. They weren't real he knew somehow but they felt real. Stranger than what was normal for him and he didn't wish to revisit them. Not with Alfred. Not with anyone. 

“I should say. You raced out of here like a bat out of- at six in the morning at that. I thought you were up for training. Imagine my surprise, making breakfast only to find that you were already gone.” Alfred continued with a stern look. Bruce's heart skipped a beat. He didn't remember leaving the house. He doesn't remember the drive. What he does remember is waking up in his car...two blocks from the Asylum with a box in the passenger seat and that horrible dream. A dream of two little boys, running from a phantom; a crazed man with ivory skin and an abnormally wide crimson smile. 

“I-I'm sorry, Alfred. Jeremiah wanted to run an idea by me. He insisted that I arrive on time.” Bruce attempted to reassure his guardian. Jeremiah hadn't expected him until ten. He couldn't admit that he'd bought the latter a new suit. Some compulsion had driven him to do so. Jeremiah seemed to appreciate the gesture. Bruce remembered the older man's face as he touched the fabric and the laugh that he exuded. The laugh that seemed to release a valve that had caused some pressure to form inside of him. A laugh that was familiar in it's congruence with another. 

“ That's it. You're taking a break.” Alfred said finally as he reached for the box. 

“No!” Bruce exclaimed as he jogged up a few stairs. “Jeremiah is very very secretive about his work. If I show you what he's shown me then I could lose his trust.” Bruce said with a sigh of exasperation before walking away. Later, he would talk to Alfred. He would ease Alfred's worries. His hands began to shake as he makes his way to his room. He contemplates what he's done as he closes his bedroom door. 

Bruce heaves a heavy sigh as he places the box on his work desk and removes his coat. Haphazardly,he threw his coat onto the back of the sturdy chair. There is a heavy emotion building in his chest, one that he has no name for. He threw himself onto his linen sheets face down and inhaled. How he missed real sleep. He closes his eyes and welcomes the darkness behind his lids. 

“Awe, is little Brucey tired?” He hears a familiar voice against his ear and suddenly he feels more alert then minutes prior. The hairs on the back of his neck bristle at the ghostly touch of the dead man next to him. 

“Don't touch me!” He yells as he turns over. 

“Oooh? What are you gonna do about?” The phantom leers, his pupils like dark pits, craters of nothingness against the ivory whites of his eyes. He smiles cruelly and Bruce feels that emotion bubbling to the surface. His eyes prickle and he wants so badly to cry. But he can't and he won't allow something so essentially human and delicate to pass between them. This is not real. He reminds himself. As if accepting that the phantom before him was a falsehood created by his fractured mind, would ease his sense of sorrow or somehow fix his internal crisis. It did none of those things. 

“You're not real.” He said, trying hard to remind himself but forgetting that he was encouraging this fictitious representation of a man he had never really known. 

“So you tell me.” Jerome rolled his eyes as he leaned back on his elbows. He shuffled his feet against the elegant rug anxiously. 

“What's in the box?” Bruce asked urgently. He didn't remember. He couldn't remember but that feeling in his chest writhed with new emotions; an orgy of this nameless feeling, fear and excitement. He watched as Jerome lay back with a wide grin on his face. “This isn't funny! I didn't go to Arkham of my own volition. What have you done?!”

“You tell me Brucey?” Jerome's lips widen and Bruce grimaces at the image of the monstrous young man laying on his clean imported bedding. 

“Is this a game to you?” Bruce exclaims as he reaches for the box. He plans to burn it. He doesn't want to see what's inside. He cannot face the contents. The rewards of his misguided subconscious. He feels like there are two people fighting inside of him. One is good and the other is self-sabotaging. He knows which one is winning but he's still rooting for the underdog. He has no idea why. 

“Don't you want to know?” Jerome breaths against his ear, appearing at his side. His callous fingertips wrapping along the side of Bruce's throat. Bruce clenches his jaw instinctively. “What makes me tick?” He laughs and Bruce struggles to get away from the loud sound. He tries to ignore the calm that pours over the fire of emotion like cool water at the sound of the latter's voice. He fights as the warmth moves to the pit of his stomach refusing to go in silence. His fingertips move in between the crack of the two slips of cardboard. 

“What is this?” Bruce says as he examines the series of cassettes inside. His eyes linger on the plastic wrapped square at the bottom and the worn loafers in the corner. The manilla folders are next, stuffed with crinkled papers.

“It's me, Brucey. It's all me.” Jerome says as he places a kiss against Bruce's forehead. Bruce doesn't flinch this time. He can't. He lingers on the feeling of rough lips against his skin, he lingers on the warmth that they exude. He wants to fade in to it and cry. He wants to cry until his voice breaks. He wants to scream until his lungs ache. But he stands in silence. Alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long. I got bogged down with some work stuff but the next chapter should be out in a couple of weeks. Thank you guys for your continued support. Since this chapter is Arcade and Bruce themed the next will take a look at the twins and James... maybe even Ra's Al Gaul if the page count will allow it.


	6. Chapter 6: The Definition of Insanity (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tabitha is running out of time with the league. After one meeting with the male members, she's left to contemplate her feelings for Barbara. Jeremiah is touched by Bruce's gift. Jerome visits an old friend and Bruce is spiraling steadfast into madness. So much has happened in just a few hours and much more is to come.

**Part One**

  
  


“Baby I'm your puppet on a string.” Jeremiah's voice echoed through the hall outside of his bedroom. 

“Making me tumble and swing. Trouble's what you bring, strange love.” He sang as he circled Ecco's bed. 

“Ssssstrannnnge how you control my every little moooove... now.” He continued as he danced, holding one arm out. His other hand circled the waist of his new suit. 

“Hanging from your strings is all I know. Starring in your puppet show. Never let me go, strange love.” He hummed along as the saxophone echoed from the speakers of his record player. He closed his eyes with a wide grin. 

“All the things you've said and done.” He continued as he pressed the violet suit to his form. His pallid face illuminated by the bright light overhead. “There's no space for me to run.” 

“Baby, I've lost and you have won. 'Cuz all I really want is...” His voice dipped low as new plans and schemes filled his mind. 

** _Strange love...even though you-_ **

“Hurt me I feel blessed, love.” He belted out with a huge smile. His eyes were closed and in his head he could hear the musician as if she were singing right before him. Bruce gripped his hands as they danced. 

They were a perfect duo. Bruce's ivory light and his dark distortion. If anyone figured out what he knew of the primary now they would come to see the beauty in their friendship. The necessity of their partnership. They were two halves and together the world came full circle. He was the light to Bruce's darkness and vice versa. If Bruce wanted, Jeremiah would have no trouble or qualms about playing the knight in Bruce's warped fairytale. And warped it was. Jeremiah had come to this realization from just two conversations with the younger man. And, to his chagrin, an introduction from his late brother. He had learned this from watching him assist terrified citizens in the square. Bruce wanted to save the world. The modern world's Atlas. 

Just as he had come to love the mythology of the titan he had become just as fascinated with Bruce's story. Jerome had been his Uranus but now, Bruce was free from that burden. He was free but just as many other sufferers had, he would search for another thing to carry. Who was Jeremiah to stand between a titan and his life's purpose. If only Bruce understood the futility in his task.

He opened his eyes to take in the expensive fabric. He chuckled without meaning to and wondered briefly if he was blushing. Another song began to play and Jeremiah was pulled back into his fantasy. 

** _Baby, I've been waiting for you, _ **

** _Don't run away now_ **

** _You've got nothing to lose_ ** . 

Jeremiah exhaled in satisfaction as he threw himself onto the foot of the bed. 

“Ecco, I wish I could express my exhilaration with this unexpected turn of events.” He said as he stared at the ceiling. 

“He's like the brother I never had. He understands. Really, deep down. There's an...electricity between us. Can you feel it?” He said as he climbed up her body, dragging the suit along with him until it formed a layer between them. He manages to relinquish one shoulder of the suit to move white blonde tendrils from her face. 

  
“Can you feel it, as you slumber?” He asked as he pressed his pelvis into the suit absentmindedly. He revels in the smell of it, the lingering aroma of Bruce's cologne.

“The sheer energy of it. Does it pull you from your sleep?” Jeremiah asks but Ecco remains motionless beneath him save for a small tremor that rushes through her hips. The movement wakes something in him which causes him to leave a kiss on her lips. He finds himself wondering if Bruce's lips are as soft. If Bruce's body is as delicate. 

The fact that Bruce hides and yet accentuates the evidence of his burgeoning masculinity with thick sweaters and turtlenecks has not gone unnoticed by Jeremiah. In a dark corner of his mind he longs to see Bruce vulnerable, truly vulnerable. He wants to reach inside Bruce's cool casual persona and pull out the ferocity that lays dormant. He wants the dark haired youth to bring it forward. To lay it at his altar. To stain the sanctuary with evidence of Bruce's conviction. He wants, he longs for Bruce to transfer his devotion from the city to him and lay spent against the edifice that is Jeremiah's temple. He wants it so badly that even a hint of this subconscious thought leaves him breathless. He exhales against Ecco's pillowy lips before laying down beside her. 

In just a few weeks time Bruce had become the pinnacle of what Jeremiah had hoped to attract in his previous life. Yes, his previous life. He was different now. His mind was practically buzzing with a new sense of freedom and a zeal for life. Jerome was dead which meant that now Jeremiah was free to be himself. He was free to leave the bunker. But the citizens of Gotham wouldn't allow him that without some torment for his brother's actions. He foresaw it coming and he laughed in the face of it. He would not become the city's plaything much less willingly allow its citizens to haze him. Jerome had gotten some things right about Gotham. It did need to be reformed and Jeremiah, as an architect knew just how to accomplish this feat. 

He sprang up from the bed with a deep sigh. 

“An idea is just a thought without action.” He said as he straightened his tie. He moves to the small box on his desk, pressed into a dark corner. He had been holding off on opening it. The box was full of relics, artifacts of a life he had no interest in but out of courtesy and curiosity he had retrieved it from Arkham, what hadn't been stolen in some type of burglary attempt that is.

As Jerome's next of kin, he had been forced to accept his few possessions. He had thought of denying them but Bruce had seen something in his deranged brother and in order to solidify their growing bond he was tasked with discovering the draw, so to speak. He turned on the light after his hand connected with the smooth spine of a journal. He ran his fingers along the surface as he examined it. An ice cream cone, of all things, was on the cover, the print quality of the poorly fashioned sticker was just as disappointing. He knew what was in it without knowing. All of his brother's insane plans. All of Jerome's hopeless ramblings and psychotic thoughts were at his fingertips. 

Without much thought he put it in his back pocket noting to examine it in his workroom. He searched through the items left, a small mechanic pair of chattering teeth, he rolled his eyes at the cliché item, a keychain from the circus, a small folded piece of paper that he believes must have fallen out of the journal. He lifts it up to his face to examine it before quickly unfolding it. 

Jeremiah flopped down in his chair as his legs gave out. A familiar heat began to pool below his waist as nausea turned his stomach. He grazed the image with his fingertips, tracing the outline of the drawing’s features. He felt a blush rise over his nose and cheeks as the drawing of Bruce breathed vigor into his flaccidity. He wondered if Medusa was as successful as Bruce was at turning things to stone. His fingers began to tremble as realization struck him like a moving train. This drawing had been in Jerome's possessions. 

Bruce's arms were high above his head and the handcuffs that encircled his wrists had left horrid red and black bruises against his pallid skin. There was a look on his face, a look that Jeremiah had mistaken for bliss but upon closer examination looked more like anguish. He examined what he had mistook for a black and red polka dot turtleneck, now he presumed they were leeches attached to Bruce's skin, the red marks could be nothing other than open wounds. The collar of the turtleneck was a collar of a different kind. What seemed out of place to him was the pale pink that seemed to spread across the face. Had Jerome imagined that Bruce would enjoy such treatment? He crumbled up the drawing as anger overtook him. He thought of Bruce's red rimmed eyes the day his insane twin perished and suddenly he felt utterly sick. 

“You're sick, brother.” He said as he discarded the piece of thin paper. 

“You're one to talk.” His mind supplied with Jerome's voice. “Keep digging you're bound to find something that...I know you'll enjoy.” Jeremiah crossed his legs to hide his manhood. 

“I doubt that.” Suddenly the atmosphere was alive with a familiar cackle. Jeremiah covered his ears at the sound. “Will you be quiet!” He screamed as he turned on the manifestation of the psychopath. He gritted his teeth as he stared at Ecco's prone body. The familiar beep of her machine was all that he heard. The cackle stopped almost as soon as it had begun. Jeremiah was enraged now. He was sick and tired of Jerome. He was so very fatigued. How stressed he felt at the thought of Bruce having any feelings for or towards his doppelganger.

“Ecco, how blissful do you think it is to be young, rich and stupid?” Jeremiah said spitefully as he turned back towards the desk, pulling the box from it's corner only to throw it across the room. 

“Bruce, you're in for something grand. You and I. I'll show you just how magnificent you are in the image of a ...reimagined city. This city.” Jeremiah said as he ran his fingers along the outline of Bruce's turtleneck. In his mind's eye, Bruce was there with him. 

  
  
  


Somewhere across town Tabitha was engaged in yet another 'conversation' with the remaining male members of the League of Shadows. 

“She's working up to it. He's young but he isn't stupid.” She said as she stared away from the man standing dangerously close to her. 

“Working up to it is not good enough.” The man said as he clenched his jaw. 

_ No wonder the women were so willing to kill them.  _ She thought to herself.

From what she had witnessed so far, they had no respect for women. She had been around men like them before. Hell, her brother had been a man like that. Women were pretty faces that could be useful when a man had to gain power, persuade his enemies and sometimes his allies. It was all fine and dandy to let a woman believe that she was his equal but under it all, the toxicity of his masculinity loomed just waiting for a willing victim to lord his grandiose social position over. Waiting for a woman to serve him the world on a silver platter. The man before her was about to find out just how much patience she had for those types of guys. 

“The ceremony must take place soon! It will. Even if we have to do the job ourselves.” The man threatened as his eyes roamed her body. “We can watch no longer as your...bed companion ruins our organization. Her goals are...limited.” He spat venomously as he turned away from her. The four men by the door seemed to shuffle in anticipation. Tabitha scoffed to herself. 

“You kill me and you know she'll come for blood.” She said with a cocky smile. If there was one thing that she knew she could count on Barbara for it was settling scores. While their relationship had been tense to say the least over the past few weeks she knew that somewhere deep down Barbara still cared. She may have been blinded by power and a limitless supply of groupies but the feelings had to be there. Right? They had been through so much together. Which was why Tabitha had to save her from herself. Tabitha knew no good would come from the Demon's head. She had always known but it wasn't until Barbara had ordered her legion of groupies to kill Tabitha that the thought came full circle. That thing was a poison and she would rather see Ra's whoever deal with it then let it take Barbara. Her Babs. 

The man laughed heartily as he turned around with a look of disbelief. 

“My apologies.” He said as his voice returned to it's normal brooding tone. “You and I want the same thing. For our leader to return and repossess the mark of his power. Let's not squabble.” He strutted over towards her only stopping a few inches away. 

Tabitha nearly laughed as he straightened his back to seem more imposing, more mannish. 

_ I can't wait until this is all over and I can rip that smile off your face with pleasure. You cocky, insignificant, worm. _ She thought as she placed her hand under her chin with a smile. Playing the game was the best way to keep Barbara alive. So Tabitha would put on her big girl pants and suffocate her ire for a few more weeks. 

“Exactly.” She cooed before her sweet facade dropped and the bitch inside reared her ugly head.

“Bruce Wayne will be here. By the way,” She said as she turned away from him to grit her teeth. “You boys should really tidy up if you're expecting guests.” She feigned a grimace as she pointed at the cobwebs around an old black casket in the center of the room. 

She made sure to saunter out, her way of passive aggressively jabbing a knife into his still bleeding wound. His leader was dead. A woman was leading his organization. All of the women from said organization had abandoned the few remaining male members that they hadn't killed. And to top it all off, the hot counterpart of the new leader didn't want him, never would and simultaneously was his last hope at bringing that old bag of bones back to life. That had to hurt, big time. Tabitha thought as she exited the old cathedral. Unfortunately, she didn't have much time to revel in her small victory. She had to figure out a way to convince Selena to bring Bruce to the cathedral. Within a few weeks. She whispered a: “Fuck my life.” as she stalked down the street, into the mist of rain and fog.

  
  


**Part Two**

  
  


The dark miasma of an impending storm stretched across the horizon, blocking out the stars and the moonlight. The houses of an antiquated development loomed in the backdrop and the dark ashen angles of the burned rooftops added an elemental chill to the scene. The only sound that could be heard from the inside of Scarecrow's house was the rhythmic pelting of heavy sheets of rain and the sound of the wind whistling through the exposed wood foundation.

“I'm gone for not even a month and you try to off yourself! I appreciate the devotion, I really do!” Jerome teased as Scarecrow pulled out a chair to sit down. 

“How narcissistic of you. ” Scarecrow wheezed as he leaned against his workstation. He seemed at ease at that moment but Jerome couldn't banish the thought of him just an hour prior. His limbs flailing madly as he dangled from his poorly tied noose. One strong tug and he fell loose. “Why are you here? More to the point, how are you here?”

“Come now, Baghead.” Jerome postured with a charismatic smirk. “It'll take a lot more than a little...tussle to kill me.” 

Scarecrow narrowed his eyes. 

“Nice try.” He chuckled as he turned away. “If you're here to lie to me then you may leave.” 

  
  


“Okay, so maybe I was revived. But it's a long story and blah blah blah. You know why I'm here.” Jerome said. He'd recounted as much of his tale as he was willing to share. Scarecrow was a friend but he knew enough about people to know that their trustworthiness was fleeting, just like every other emotion. 

“Yes, I left your gift as you requested. As far as I know, he was fooled.” Scarecrow wheezed as he retrieved his bottle of water from amidst his chemistry equipment. 

“As far as you know?” Jerome said as he cleaned his teeth.

“He's been leaving the bunker about once or twice every week. The girl hasn't been seen in awhile.” Scarecrow wheezed quietly. “He's been spending a lot of time with you know who as well..”

Jerome mused quietly for a moment. He smiled deeply to himself. His plan was coming together perfectly. He didn't think he would be alive to reap the fruits of his labor but soon enough he would. Bruce's eyes would finally open. He wondered if his view of Jim Gordon had changed. If his death had revealed the other side of Jimbo to little Brucey, the other side of the law in Gotham. Perhaps Bruce had convinced himself otherwise. Either way, he'd made the truth known with his sacrifice. 

“Wonderful!” He said with false cheer. 

“Hmm, intriguing. I think you would be interested to know the boy bought him a suit. A rather expensive looking one at that.” Scarecrow said as he crossed his arms. The storm outside roared on. The wind beat against the house with fury, howling through the hollow spaces between the exposed planks, chilling the room. Jerome got tired of standing and flopped down on the covered couch. He ignored the dust cloud that rose around him as he made himself comfortable. 

“Awe, Miah's made a friend. At least until Brucey finds out what kind of monster he really is anyway.” Jerome laughed. 

“You seem quite sure of that.” Scarecrow said pensively as he loomed near the empty fireplace. “Honestly, I have no interest in your sibling rivalry. Please leave.” Jerome gave a tired sigh before folding his hands over his waist. 

“Oh I am. Eventually the training wheels were gonna fall off.” Jerome said cryptically. Scarecrow stared at him in confusion to which he waved his hand. “But, that isn't the only reason I'm here. Why were you trying to kill yourself?” 

“My business is my own.” Scarecrow stated threateningly. 

“C'mon Johnny! I'm only here to help.” Jerome said with conviction, placing a hand on his chest theatrically to illustrate his point. 

“Did you really believe that your facade would convince me?” Scarecrow said dangerously as he advanced. 

“Not feeling like yourself are you?” Jerome called his bluff. He already knew the answer. “I can hear it in your voice. You're having one of those -uh- moments of clarity. Yeah that's it.” 

Jonathan sighed deeply as he sat on the arm of the couch. He removed his burlap cowl slowly with shaky hands. They sat in complete silence for a long time which wasn't exactly unlike them. Even in Arkham they hadn't spoken much. They spoke when it was necessary but their way of communicating was more nonverbal, through hand gestures and passed notes. It briefly crossed his mind that this was the closest he'd ever come to having a school friend. 

“Don't worry, in no time you'll be back to your good old self. Terrifying.” Jerome finished with a laugh. “I have just the thing to cheer you up! We'll visit an old friend or should I say a common enemy.”

“Gordon.” Jonathan said with a dangerous edge to his voice. “Let's go!” Jonathan said as he stood before putting his cowl back on. 

“Not now. Trust me, we have some preparations to make. Catch me up on what's happened.” Jerome said offhandedly. Jonathan seemed to think about it for a moment before sitting back down. 

“I'm not your lackey, Valeska.” He wheezed warningly. 

“C'mon, for the sake of old partnerships.” Jerome tested with a grin. Jonathan groaned in exasperation but acquiesced nonetheless. Jerome smiled deeply, making a mental note to keep a closer eye on Jonathan. 

** Part Three **

Somewhere in the industrial sector, Bruce sat at a long abandoned workbench transfixed by the audio that he couldn't help but listen to. The smell of decay, wood mulch and rust made his nose run fluidly and for the life of him he couldn't seem to keep the sniffles at bay. No one had been here in quite some time, he contributed it to the strong odor that wafted through the rooms. 

Even though the paper mill had gone out of business several years prior to his birth the odor of it remained. It had seeped into the walls and now it was bleeding out of every corridor, every hole and crevice into the wide expanse of every floor. He secured himself on the top floor, in what he presumed to be an accountant's office. Or perhaps that of the owner. The door was made of oak and though years had passed, the latch, handle and hinges were in good shape. The latch was securable and Bruce was thankful for that but he had moved the filing cabinets in front of it just in case. The awning windows would make his exit much easier in case of an emergency. He thought to himself. He ignored the questionable objects in the room and went back to work. 

If only he had the privacy to review the contents of the box at the manor. Unfortunately, he was unable to think of a place where the box would remain unnoticed by Alfred. The contents were too hard to explain. He regretted using Selena as an excuse to leave the manor but he had run out of options. He'd told Alfred that she needed him and that he would be back as soon as he could. There was an unspoken agreement between them about her. Alfred would only intervene in their relationship if absolutely necessary. 

Bruce took a deep breath to calm his nerves as he pressed the play button on the tape recorder he'd borrowed from the manor. 

“Interview number nineteen. Mr. Valeska showed few signs of improvement under the care of Dr. Hodges, Dr.Wilkerson and Dr. Lee respectively during his first stay here. Initially, he seemed to be exhibiting signs of extreme irritability and short term memory loss. Though these signs are still present.” Dr. Bishop said. 

The doctor began and Bruce skipped through her introduction. She'd talked about his symptoms at the beginning of the last interview as well. Irritability, short term memory loss, short attention span and a childlike preoccupation with new things. Bruce stopped the tape abruptly as the pitch of the voice changed. 

“Love? What convinces you that it's real? Let's be honest, doc...love's a crock and you know it.” Jerome rasped with ennui. 

“Well, call me a hopeless romantic but I believe it exists. There is someone out there for all of us. But then again we haven't had the same experiences. Perhaps...I'm wrong?” The doctor baited as she leaned back in her chair. Bruce could hear the cushion shift. 

“You are.” Jerome chuckles and Bruce can hear the thin fabric of his shirt scratching against the table as he leans in a little closer. 

“You think love is out there for even a quarter of the bozos in here? Please, love is a social construct that humans use to complicate and yet explain their incessant desire for procreation. Even procreation is based out of man's narcissistic need to be remembered. Their need for control. What you call love, I call a blase convention. How else would you explain the cheating lying husband who is so blatantly obvious with his philandering nature that even his coworkers know what he gets up to after work? Or the housewife who somehow never knew what was going down when he was out of town, if you get my drift?” Jerome ranted. 

“Truth is no one loves anyone. She loves having a family, being a part of the school council and telling her friends and all the other pitiful happy go-lucky mothers about the vacations he takes them on. She knows he's cheating. Deep down she knows but she likes how he 'does it' with her and the money in his pocket so she stays. He, on the other hand, enjoys going golfing with his boss and regaling the senior VP in stories about his beautiful artificial family, he enjoys the status that it gives him and the comfort that comes with having warm food on the table every night and little carbon copies of himself floating around. They don't truly love each other. They love what they can do for each other. The funny thing is, they both dream of slitting the other's throat in the middle of the night, setting fire to the house and banging someone else before the smoke cleared.” Jerome finished with a snort.

Bruce briefly wondered why he was listening. What could he possibly hope to discover from listening to the audio-recordings of a psychopath’s therapy sessions? 

_ A way to get rid of him. For good.  _ His mind supplied as Jerome yawned in front of him. He gave Bruce a quick lazy stare before hopping off of the table to examine the eraser board on the other side of the room. 

“These two people that you referenced, do you know them personally?” The doctor asks and there is an immediate silence. 

“My parents were married for 60 years. My dad never said a bad word about my mother and vice versa. Things were hard sometimes...” The doctor tried to supply an example of a functional married couple but Jerome yawned. 

“Am I boring you?” She asked without irritation or malice.

“A little but I'm sure you'll go on.” Jerome said in an off handed sort of way. 

“No, tell me. What's so boring about that?” Dr. Bishop inquired with an audible smile. 

“It's the same story essentially. You just don't know it.” He's smiling again. Bruce can hear the audible shift in his tone. 

“I guess we got a little off track.” The doctor said and Bruce can hear her pen scratching against the paper. He wondered if she was nervous. If so, he couldn't hear it in her voice and he commended her on her calm tone. 

“Love is a warped delusion.” Jerome sighed in bemusement. 

“Have you ever been in love?” The doctor asked, causing Jerome to laugh. 

“Didn’t you hear me, doc?” He whispered. “It’s a sick twisted delusion. I’ll pass.”

“I see.” The doctor said as she began to write something down. 

“Tell me about Dietrich?” She asks suddenly, eyes down cast toward what Bruce believes is her notepad. 

“Dietrich, who wants to talk about Dietrich?” Jerome scoffs. 

“Well, we've come to notice a sort of...trend with you.” Dr. Bishop says quietly as though she's attempting to gauge the subject softly. 

“A trend? You don't say.” Jerome seemed happy at the mention of attention.

“Yes, well, it's really quite fascinating.” Dr. Bishop says as she taps her pen to the notepad. “He's not the first. Some of your...ex-friends. Dark hair, light eyes, similar body types and facial structures. The guard, Stanley, was also five foot eight, dark hair, light eyes, questionably thin but boyishly built. From similar backgrounds too.”

“I don't like what you're insinuating.” Jerome whispers dangerously as he leans closer.

“I'm not insinuating anything. I just find it interesting is all. Do they remind you of someone? Someone from your past?” Dr. Bishop inquires quizzically.

“That's what this is about?” Jerome says but it's clear to Bruce that he's feigning disbelief. 

“Dietrich was boring and if there's one thing I hate it's being bored. Come to think of it, they all bored me.” He cackles darkly. 

“But you're not bored right now. You're angry, aren't you? This goes back to the mindfulness training we've been practicing. You have to acknowledge and understand the feelings that you're feeling in order for your therapy to work. If you have any hope of getting out of here that's where to start. Craziness as some may call it-” Dr. Bishop said matter-of-factly. 

“I'm not crazy!” Jerome seethes. 

“I believe that your previous diagnosis was wrong. I think you're a high functioning young man. You've probably been that way your whole life. Able to see the bigger picture with only a few small hints, you can see how you fit into it and how you don't, you're even aware of how to manipulate the structure of it to achieve the results that you desire. The results of your sensory aptitude test were excellent. You have some character quirks that support my hypothesis. Your exceptional charisma to name one. Especially the way you fixate on things that interest you.”

“What can I say I'm a charismatic guy.” Jerome gloats. 

“Did Bruce find you charismatic?” Dr. Bishop says and Bruce can hear her tapping her pen again. 

“Who?” Jerome tries in futility to pretend as if he doesn't remember him. Bruce scoffs to himself in order to make light of the turn in their conversation but he can't help the uneasiness settling in his stomach. 

“Bruce Wayne, the boy you kidnapped to take to the carnival. To kill him.” Dr. Bishop said plainly. 

“Wouldn't you like to know.” Jerome answers coldly. The edge in his voice seems to suck any warmth from the air. 

“I would actually.” Dr. Bishop agrees with what Bruce feels may have been a calm smile. 

“You see Mr. Valeska, I've tracked your progress here at Arkham.” She said. 

Bruce listened intently as she began to write. He gritted his teeth at the severe, grating sound of her pen scraping at the paper as she wrote. 

“Though your propensity for violence was always there, your choice of...cohorts. As we haven't been able to find any real proof that you were responsible for their murders, maimings or violent accidents though they all seemed to fall under horrible circumstances after meeting you, I believe cohorts is the best term to use here. Your choice of cohorts has remained the same, so to speak. Over the past few days we've come to notice that you've taken interest in another person, Oswald Cobblepot who fits the same kind of bill.” She leans a bit closer to him, Bruce can hear her sleeves creep against the table as she folds her hands. 

“Though he wasn't born into a wealthy or even upper class household, he's made a name for himself. He fits the same physical description. Shorter than you, black hair, small-framed, light eyes. Were you friends before Arkham?” She continued with her psycho-analysis and Bruce couldn't stop his heart from skipping a beat. 

He hadn't given much thought to Jerome's existence at Arkham. Now things were becoming a bit clearer for him. Jerome said that killing him was the last thing that he remembered wanting to do before he’d kidnapped Bruce. He wondered if the ginger was still reliving it. Or if, he was fixated on the hall of mirrors. Bruce feels the rise and fall of the older man’s chest between his thighs, he can smell the chalky fragrance of the face paint and the copper scent of blood. He wonders if Jerome caught the moment that Bruce wishes he could forget. He wondered if from the ground Jerome witnessed what he considers now to be his secret shame. 

_ It didn’t happen.  _ Bruce thought to himself as he clenched his fists until they turned white. He still remembers Jerome’s blood on his knuckles, the pounding of blood in his ears and that heat. The delicious heat of excitement that settled in his stomach like a raging fire. It had cooled to embers. He lifts his fist to his mouth as he bites his lip. _ _

_ It didn’t happen. _ He tries to deny what he knows to be true. To conceal his shameful actions but as the memory shapes around him, he can’t help but fall into place. His hands are shaking. He still feels the anger. The desire to kill but he’s left cold when it begins to fade. Then the emptiness inside is calling for him and he can’t ignore it. He’s so full of wanting. Wanting, a sick desperation that he loathes but he cannot fight. When he thought Alfred was dead. When he couldn’t subdue the emotion taking control of himself. 

He feels so cold, so incredibly empty. Now, he is utterly alone. Alfred is probably dead; he tells himself and for a brief moment that deep desire has a hold of him and it won’t let him go. It screams for satisfaction. He wants to grab a piece of glass, to force Jerome up and out of the hall. In the deepest pit of his imagination, he entertains the thought of keeping him. A plaything for the darkness brimming inside of his. He can’t stop himself from looking back. He fixates on the mangled yellowing skin of the ginger’s face and the blood. He is aroused by the wheeze of Jerome’s breathing. He’s breathing deeply now to control himself but he can’t. He pulls his knuckles to his lips and scarlet clouds his vision as the metallic taste of Jerome’s blood explodes over the expanse of his tongue. 

It was only a moment, a short collection of seconds before he began to retrace his steps out of the labyrinth of mirrors. Jerome had wanted Bruce to kill him. He felt a grand satisfaction from denying him that but there was something else. A thought that Bruce won’t touch now. He found it strange how a few seconds could satiate an insurmountable need. 

Bruce gulps down the lump of contrition forming in his throat. Of all the things he wished he could take back that one he wished to take back the most. 

“Hello, hello, how low?” Jerome sang as he pounded out a beat against the file cabinet with his fists. 

“Will you stop please!” Bruce exclaimed as he was pulled from his reverie. 

Jerome rolled his eyes with a sigh of exasperation before walking away from the cabinet to flop down on the dirty bed, cloaked in rags.

For awhile, he'd held fast to the thought that Jerome's obsession with him had ended after the hall of mirrors. After his escape he hadn't sought Bruce out. Hadn't caused him any personal trauma. No, he had thought he'd been forgotten. Not that he was particularly saddened by this, not consciously. 

  
  


“Let's go back to Stanley then. He was a guard but you two seemed close from what I heard. When he was your escort we hardly had any trouble. You always made it to Intensive Treatment without so much as a bruise or a fight. A few of the other guards reported that they heard you two laughing and carrying on a few times. I'm well aware now that he would bring you things from the outside. But then you moved on. What was so boring about him?” Dr. Bishop’s voice broke through Bruce’s brief dance with self-loathing. 

“Stanley, huh. Let’s see, which one was he again?” Jerome sucked his teeth absentmindedly. Bruce gawked at the nonchalance in his voice. How many men had fallen at the ginger’s hands, he wondered. How many men had he found to act as substitutes for Bruce? Bruce banished the thought quickly. It couldn’t have been about him. Those men died because of Jerome’s insanity. It had nothing to do with him. 

“I see. Sad what happened to him. They found his body in the East Wing. Did you know that? Yes, looking at his picture now...he looks a lot like-” Dr. Bishop continued. 

“Sounds like you're into the short, darkly brooding types, doc.” Jerome laughed with vigor. 

“My interests are not the topic of this conversation. You liked Stanley didn't you? A month before he died he put in a transfer, did you know that? Those records are sealed now but from what I've been able to gather, something transpired between the two of you. Suddenly, Stanley didn't want to be an object of your ...interest any longer.” Dr. Bishop said patiently. 

“Ooooh, doc. You should work at the precinct. This feels like an interrogation.” Jerome laughs loudly. “Fun times.”

“You are by far one of the most interesting case studies I've ever done.” The psychiatrist praised openly as she continued to write. “I mean, the level of complexity is very intriguing but your resistance is a bit of a let down. You seemed so willing last week to participate in your recovery. Such a shame.”

“Bruce Wayne. That's all anyone can think about.” Jerome gritted his teeth as he bristled with ire. 

  
  


“I see.” Dr. Bishop coughed quietly. “I think that's enough for today. This conversation has been very illuminating.” 

“Illuminating, huh?” Jerome said without amusement.    
  


“Yes, Mr. Valeska. Illuminating.” Dr. Bishop confirmed. 

“You want to know something, doc?” He said with a sniff. “Most people are boring. What do you expect? But Brucey...oh ...he’s something.” Jerome finished with an air of something that makes Bruce uncomfortably warm around his collar and a wide smile. 

“Guards, you can take him now.” Dr. Bishop said loudly. “Keep writing in your journal, Mr. Valeska. Also, I think we’ll start next week’s session the same as this week.” 

“Righty-o, doc.” Jerome said with a snicker as he rose from his seat. 

“Now that inmate E-146 is aware of the root or perhaps the focal point of his obsession, maybe this will lead to progress with his recovery. It is my professional opinion that this inmate is exhibiting signs of psychopathy, dissociative disorder, antisocial personality disorder as well as...dare I say...a condition known only as super sanity. There is little research on the condition but from what I've gathered over the last few weeks he is suffering from it. It isn't that he's evil, per say, but that he switches in between states or faces as they are known. It is a primitive survival technique, that most shed as they develop into adulthood only keeping the faces necessary for survival, i.e. the home identity and the professional identity. But with Mr. Valeska, he seems to have a different face or identity for most situations.” Dr. Bishop said before taking a deep breath and removing her glasses. 

“When he is unsure what to do or which face to present he usually goes quiet. Even this I feel, is a dangerous aspect of his nature due to the heightened levels of anxiety that it causes him and the resulting anger. None of these identities appear to know how to lie exactly but there is a certain level of deception in the silence particularly. The frequent use of this survival technique eventually leads to a state of depression, as we've seen in previous sessions. While he is able to discuss his trauma and reveal some truths about himself it is never long before he fades into a dissociative state and in that state he has and will continue to commit great atrocities.” Dr. Bishop stated as her pen scratched against the paper. 

“It is my sincerest hope that we are able to find a way to cure or at least treat this sick young man. Only time will tell. For now, I plan to spearhead his ECT plan personally to track the success rate this time around. I believe that there may have been some foul play afoot previously and that ends now. I'm decreasing his dose of Fluoxetine from 40 to 20 milligrams. I will also increase the dosages of the following medications: Clozapine 200 milligrams per day,  Chlorpromazine 100 milligrams per day and in a month's time we will revisit the patient’s treatment plan. ” 

Bruce covered his mouth as he processed what he'd just heard. He had known before the carnival that Jerome was obsessed with him. He had known for quite sometime but the thought of the older man actually fixating on him disturbed him just a little. He closed his eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He was unsure of how to process the interview. 

If he was honest with himself he didn't really know Jerome. Not the person who spoke during the interview. He knew the person that Jerome showed himself to be in front of his followers. He contemplated the ride to the circus. The laughter that he heard around him and the silence. Jerome had barely spoken to him the whole ride there. He had anticipated some psychopathic posturing in the form of threats or perhaps some torture but that hadn't happened. 

Instead, the redhead seemed content to only make his presence known when he had to, from holding Bruce by the shoulders to keep him from sliding around the back seat or pressing a little closer to him when another follower joined the group in the back of what Bruce had perceived to be a van.

He touched him with his bare hands. That was what Bruce remembers. He didn't use gloves, not when he pulled him away from Alfred by his ear, not when pressing Bruce close to him to keep him from sliding into someone's lap in the back of the van. Not even when he gripped Bruce's hair. His scalp tingles at the thought. He had been scared, excitedly so, when Jerome was prepared to stab him. He doesn't know why he feels this way sometimes. Being on the verge of death should never be described as exciting. 

No one else has been able to illicit the same cocktail of emotions from him in similar situations. No one has ever left him quite as confused and disgusted with himself. 

He suddenly wishes that he could go back to the way that he used to be but it was too late for that. Something had changed inside of him upon seeing Jerome’s prone body for the second time. How he loathes it. 

The phantom draws closer to him from the shadows. He can hear the rubber soles of Jerome's white hi-tops as they briefly connect with the floor. He shudders as the image places his gloved hands on his shoulders. He sees the smears of blood against the ivory fabric and the red hairs that crept under the cuff of his yellow long sleeve button down. Heat pools in the pit of his stomach while the rest of his body remains cold. 

He smells of wet soil and something acrid. It burns the inside of Bruce’s nose, sweet, sickeningly pungent like embalming fluid and bleach. He can’t stand the combination of these scents and slowly acid swells in the back of his throat. The grip is different, this phantom’s nails dig into his shoulder, reminding him of the way eagles carry their prey back to crudely fashioned nests.

“Is that what you wanted me to hear?” Bruce seethed. “To know you were thinking about me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, kiddo.” Jerome said with a sneer. He moves to Bruce’s side and the younger man bites his tongue to stop the amalgamation of angry thoughts from funneling out. 

“What do you want from me?!” Bruce exclaims with a shout before he flips the table in anger. The tape recorder careens across the dusty floor and the tapes fly from one end of the room to the other. “Why won’t you just leave me alone?” Bruce shouts with exhaustion before he slides back into his seat.

“What do I want from you?!” Jerome laughed wildly. He pressed his bloodstained gloves into his sides as he leans over. “No, Bruce.” 

“The real question is, what to do you want from me?” Jerome utters somberly as his gaze turns dark and looms on Bruce’s face. Suddenly, his hand darts out like a striking snake to grip Bruce’s hair. Fatigue won and Bruce was too slow to stop him. 

“First you tell me to be quiet and then you start yelling at me!” Jerome yells from just behind the wall as he turns the corner. “Jeez, can a guy catch some z’s?” He says as he rubs the back of his head as he eyes Bruce lazily. 

Bruce’s eyes widen as he realizes his mistake. He turns to face the phantom gripping his hair. He tries to pull away as he realizes that there are two ghosts in the room. 

“Don’t you get it, Baby Bats?” Jerome laughs shrilly as his skin pales to an abnormal powdery porcelain color. His nails drag across Bruce’s scalp as he tugs viciously at the younger man’s ebony locks. Bruce bends his legs and shoves his feet into Jerome’s abdomen with all the force he can muster. A loud cackle fills the room but it isn’t Jerome’s. Bruce backs away from the man on the floor. He watches in silent horror as red hair changes to sludge green. His suit deepens in color until it’s a dark purple. Bruce turns to pull the latch on the window and crawls out quickly as the ginger transforms into something he’d only seen in his worst nightmares. 

  
  


He inhales sharply as cold rain stabs into his leather jacket like millions of tiny darts. The cold water pools around his turtleneck and seeps into the thick material.

“Baby Bats! What? Don't you like my company?” The man with emerald green eyes stares at him from the opening of the awning. They lock eyes for a moment and all Bruce can feel is an endless surplus of terror clamoring up his spine. Before he’s fully realized it, his legs refuse to respond and he’s standing before this thing, paralyzed. The being sneers at him and his eyes darken as he grips the window frame. He’s laughing, it’s a horrific sound to Bruce. His heart is racing too fast and he’s left thoughtless in the presence of this fear. 

  
  


“You were searching for meaning.” The pallid man smiled cruelly as he began to ease himself through the window’s opening. Before he can get too far he’s being dragged back inside. Bruce can hear someone speaking to him but it’s a low whisper under the sound of his pounding heart. 

“Get out of here!” Jerome yells at him as his arm stretched around the man’s neck, successfully dragging him back into the small office. “Run!” 

His feet collide with the wet crushed stone as he runs. For a moment he forgets about the box he’s left. He forgets about all the pieces of Jerome that he’s left behind. He thinks about getting away. Running as fast as his legs will take him across the gray roof to the fire escape. 

“Wait!” A deep thunderous voice bellows from behind him, causing him to turn to face the source of the noise. A tall man lumbers across the graveled artificial landscape towards him. He’s dressed in a black and gray striped clothing. Bruce tries to get a good look at him but he can only make out the outline of a knife and the pattern of his uniform through the heavy rain and fog. In a moment he’s gone and the phantom’s image is what Bruce can see, his smile is disturbingly yellow. Suddenly, a red blur rushes towards him. Their bodies collide momentarily lifting Bruce off of his feet. Bruce flays at the opposing figure and yells as his fists come down against Jerome’s face. 

“Stop that! It’s me!” Jerome yells as he grabs Bruce’s fists before reaching for his hand. 

“Let’s go!” He exclaims as he leads the younger man down the fire escape. 

“Who is he?” Bruce yells through the sound of rain as they run from one floor to the next. 

“You don’t want to find out.” Jerome shakes his head. They fall into silence, both listening for the footsteps of the man pursuing them. They never came but they did not cease their escape. 

“We have to get back to the car.” Jerome says as they reach the path that forms a divide between the abandoned buildings of the old business park. 

“What about the files. We can’t just leave them. We have to go back.” Bruce says as he swallows his fear for a moment. 

“Doesn’t matter. We need to move; and quickly.” Jerome says without turning around. He skirts along the wall, dragging Bruce along with him by his hand. For a moment the world is silent. Bruce focuses on the feeling of their wet palms pressed together. His heart pounds louder than the heavy rain. Jerome’s hand is callous and rough but it feels warm. It feels living. 

He checks to make sure the coast is clear. Bruce dissolves into his own mind. 

_ I like it when he touches me like this. How peculiar.  _

“C’mon.” He says as he runs across the path to another building. Bruce follows quietly. “Where’s the car?”

“Follow me.” Bruce smiles as he pulls his hand out of Jerome’s grasp. He turns the corner to make a dash in the direction of his car but before he can move he’s seized by his throat and thrown down onto the ground. He’s left dizzy and achy from the collision. He gasps for air as he tries to rise. A hard bottomed shoe collides with the side of his face and severe nausea boils up from his core. His head hurts and he can’t think straight. He sees glimpses of black and grey, deep purple and green as his vision blurs from dizziness. 

“Do you like what you’ve found?” The ghost whispers, insanity in his gaze. He spread his arms out wide to showcase himself. He smiled deeply as he leaned down, seizing Bruce by his legs and dragging him closer. Suddenly, Bruce has forgotten all of his training. It takes him a moment to remember how to breath. He tries to remind himself that this figure is just a thought that he conjured but as his pallid hands circle Bruce’s throat, and his jagged nails graze Bruce’s skin, he feels as real as any person. Bruce screams as loud as he can. The cold body pressing into him leaves him feeling ill.

He tried to breath, tried to remind himself that it was only in his head but to no avail. He could feel the finality of this event settling around him, reminding him of his own mortality. The pale man caressed his skin as the hunter’s knife loomed over his head. He brings it down and tears through the fabric of Bruce’s sweater, leaving a bloody gash in its wake. He touches Bruce’s bare skin, caresses him like he’s something precious. Bruce tries to close his eyes, to be any place other than there in that moment. The ghost’s hand lingers on his lower abdomen for a moment before reaching for the hemline of his pants. 

“Bruce, look at me.” Jerome rasped loudly from his spot on the ground. His skin has paled from blood loss. The crimson red blood painted his fingers as he clutched the bleeding hole in his stomach.  _ How did he get stabbed?  _ Bruce wonders, he doesn’t remember. He didn’t see it. “Just...close your eyes.” Jerome whispered as his breath became a harsh utterance. 

“Jerome.. I’m scared.” Bruce admits as he closes his eyes. He can feel the tears sliding down his face. He feels so small and vulnerable. He feels helpless as the phantom roves his body with his free hand. 

“So much like you’re father.” The man leers with a horrid cackle. Bruce is crying freely and he can’t stop himself. 

“Don’t open your eyes. It’ll be okay.” Jerome whispers and Bruce can’t help but hear the switch in his voice. He sounds much younger to Bruce’s ears and though he wants to open his eyes he keeps them shut tightly. He doesn’t want to see what happens next. He reaches forward, trying desperately to find the hand that had been offered to him. 

“Pity, he’ll miss the show.” The man says and Bruce can hear the knife being raised. He can feel the change in the atmosphere. The phantom cackles as a roar comes to life in the background. Bruce opens his eyes to see a little boy across from him, his eyes cloudy and unfocussed, his hand outstretched. The weight on top of him shifts suddenly and he’s forced to turn in the direction of it just in time to see an imposing dark shadow drag the villain off of him. 

  
  


“Bats! You came!” The man in the purple suit exclaims with jovial zeal as he’s grabbed by his collar and raised into the air by the blurred black shadow. The thing throws him across the pathway into the railing and he tumbles over himself as he hits the ground. It billows as it flies at the opposing figure, a growl low in its throat. 

“Why?!” The creature yells as he begins to strike the purple suited man with his fists. “Why?!”

Bruce doesn't have time to watch the altercation unfold. With weak legs he crawls over to the child beside him. With shaking hands he draws the body close, he seizes the hand that once tried to hold him and he whimpers as an immeasurable sense of loss envelopes him. 

“Jerome?” He whispers as he strokes the boy’s rusty hair. “Please wake up.” He can’t control himself, as he lays down next to him. Somehow, he knows that Jerome is gone. He’ll never wake up again. He places his little arm over his stomach and stares at the vines on the ceiling. One more year and they would have been in bloom. 

“You thought you could just bury me and forget?!” The phantom laughs as the onslaught of violent blows to his face and abdomen continues. “Live happily ever after?” 

Bruce catches a glimpse of it as it releases the bleeding phantom’s collar. It looks like a bat to him. He laughs at that. He wonders if this thing has been following him since the well. Since he fell inside, he’s never been able to leave the experience behind. 

“It’s okay, J.” He whispers as blood seeps into the gray fabric of his turtleneck. “It’s just a bad dream.” He closes his eyes and tries to force himself to sleep but the pounding of his heart and the tears that won’t stop, keep him from unconsciousness.

He hears another scream and he can see something shine out of the corner of his line of vision. A blond woman stabs and she lashes out at the green haired man with the knife. She’s screaming as it tears through the thin purple fabric of the man’s suit. All the while, the man continues to laugh, as blood pools over the torn fabric, as blood pools from his mouth. 

“You’ll never forget me.” He says as he’s stabbed in the chest repeatedly. His lime green eyes are on Bruce and for a moment they share a stare and the man smiles as his gaze becomes unfocussed. The bat pulls her away. All Bruce can do is watch as the phantom fades and the scene changes. He’s back in the now, watching as the blond woman and black bat meld together into the image of a blond stranger, he brings a crowbar across the face of a tall man in a black and grey uniform. The blond grunts as he brings the crowbar down again, this time hitting the man in the genitals continuously. It’s an Arkham uniform Bruce realizes with a relieved laugh. None of it was real. He laughs as his body trembles. He can’t stop himself from laughing as he rises from the ground. The boy’s prone body is gone and now he’s alone with the convict and the stranger. 

The assault doesn’t stop. This stranger is brutal in his attempt at what Bruce can only imagine is revenge. The escapee’s face is bloody and mangled beyond recognition and though Bruce feels somewhere deep down that he should stop this, he can’t force himself to make a move. There is a cold filling his bones. He feels too heavy to intervene. He feels weighted and in the wake of fright his emotions are a ceaseless jumble of high activity. Eventually, he knows, they will fade and he will feel nothing. Nothingness can be peaceful, he reminds himself. Peaceful just before it becomes maddening. He turns to walk away from them. He has to find the car, he reminds himself. Before stopping.

Jerome is still up there. He thinks. He’s still up there in that room. Bruce doesn’t want to go back. He doesn’t want to hold on to those remnants of Jerome but he can’t bring himself to let go of them. Sluggishly, he makes his way back to the building. He can hear the dull sounds of gunfire in the background. He keeps moving steadily to his goal. He won’t turn around now. He won’t be forestalled. Quietly he slips through the rusted segment of the automatic gate and into the factory. 

“Bruce! Where did you go?” Jerome’s voice calls from behind him. “Bruce?!” There’s panic in his voice. Bruce turns in the direction of it. He sounds real. He sounds palpable. A lump forms in Bruce’s throat naturally. His mind brings back images that make no sense to him now. He can hear footsteps as they approach the building, splashing through rain water. 

“Jerome?” Bruce calls out as he wraps his arms around himself. Green eyes stare at him through the opening of the gate and soon he hears a familiar laugh. He smiles gently as he moves a little closer to get a better look at the man squeezing himself through the hole in the gate. He steps back as he realizes that it isn’t Jerome who called to him. The blond stranger steps into the darkness. His face is scar-less but he looks like...Bruce clears his throat quickly. This stranger is no stranger he realizes as he steps further away. They had met before, on his way home. This is the young man he’d inadvertently blocked on the road. 

“Hiya, you okay?” He asked. Bruce’s tongue feels like a lump of cotton in his mouth as the stranger's voice hits his ears. For a moment his smile looks too familiar, his frame reminds Bruce of a danger that he has long since failed to avoid. He feels loneliness well inside him and it calls up from the abyss. 

“Why are you following me?” Bruce forces the words out as his mind goes blank. “Did you kill that man?” He finds himself asking.

To be continued…..


	7. The Definition of Insanity (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been an eventful night for Bruce and it's only going to get more intense from here.

The streetlights hung overhead framing the winding road, dim from the fog. They appeared effervescent from the rain stained windows. At two in the morning Gotham was still buzzing with activity and the bridge was no exception. The roads on either side of theirs were sporadic with traffic. The shadows of various vehicles sped by as they passed. Everyone wanted into the city but few were leaving. He would join the slow, low volume procession of vehicles on their way out. Away from the vibrant lights, the loud noise of the bustling city, the hellmouth of urban living, into the dark quiet peace just on the outskirts. He scratched his eyebrow in thought as they finally reached the very edge of the bridge. The river gleamed with zeal as if in farewell to them. A few more miles and he could finally kick the kid out of his car. He sighed deeply from exasperation.

He could have just left Bruce for his butler to find him. He isn’t good with voices but he knows that amongst the police sirens he could hear Bruce’s butler yelling for him in the background before he made his escape from the derelict business park. He was surprised to find that checkpoints hadn’t been established yet for the missing rich kid. 

He should have left him in that old building, he thinks. Deep down he knows that he couldn’t have gone through with it. His mind looms on the memory of Bruce running from him. His blood created a desultory trail but Jerome had found him. He focuses on the memory of Bruce on his knees, calling out his name as he scooped up cassettes with one hand and held his bleeding wound with the other. He lingers on the lost look in Bruce’s eyes. His smooth skin so pale from blood loss. On one hand he thinks it was good that Bruce ran from him. He didn’t have to explain anything then. But on the other hand Bruce may have maintained consciousness long enough to do something thrilling. Like fight with him. The prince of Gotham ended up passing out on the roof, clutching a box like a security blanket. 

To think he had been having such a good night until Bruce passed him on the road. He thought it would be fun to follow him, wreak a little havoc on him but after spending the worse half of an hour trying to trail him through a maze of old decrepit businesses he was almost ready to give up. Once he’d made the decision to leave, Bruce had made an appearance. After watching the show unfold before him he’d made the decision to lend the kid a hand. Especially after watching the ‘child murderer’ attempt to assault him. If there was one thing that Jerome didn’t find amusing it was that. Those hands on Bruce’s body. His eye twitches as rage begins to build. Yet again, Bruce messed up his shot. He’d forced Jerome to break his focus and the child murderer got away but not without a few near fatal wounds. He had scarred him, he believes. After something like that would Bruce still be the same little devil that amused him so? Perhaps, he should have let the lunatic kill him. But on the other hand it would be much more fun to see the look on Bruce’s face when he realized who saved him. The thought of Bruce owing him something made him smile so deeply he felt his lips would split. His mind reeled with the possibilities. The sign post for Central Ave shined ahead of them and Jerome finds himself with yet another dilemma. To take Bruce back to his manor or not to. 

He wants to take Bruce home. To be done with him and his uninspired performance but the lingering memory of their short time together keeps playing over and over again in his head. 

“Jerome...I’m scared.” Bruce’s voice echoes in his skull and he can’t fight the knee jerk reaction that he has. He reaches over into the passenger seat without thinking and pats Bruce’s knee. He doesn’t know why he feels the compulsion to do so. It’s enough to make him grimace. He should push Bruce out of the vehicle into oncoming traffic or stop at the edge of the bridge and leave his body hanging by a thread over the briny waters below. He could call Gordon and tell him where to find his precious meal ticket. He should have taken Bruce to the zoo, to the piranha exhibit and cast him off on a tiny dinghy made of rotting flimsy wood. He should have. He could have. But he didn’t. What he’d watched had taken all of the fun out of torturing Bruce. Also, it felt like cheating considering the kid was already injured and unconscious. He’d staunched the bleeding and stitched him up but he had no idea how much blood Bruce had lost in total. For all he knew, he was carrying around a dead body. The idea filled him with glee and he found himself laughing at the thought. Then, he checked Bruce’s pulse. Of course the kid was still alive. It would take more than a deep cut and a little blood loss to kill him. 

Knowing that he was still alive didn’t make things any easier. A body was easy to get rid of. You can leave them where they fall. He’d never taken hostages that he didn’t plan to kill quickly. The thought of Bruce as a hostage made his toes tingle and a shock of exhilaration run up his spine. Oh, the fun that they could have. Jeremiah would be furious now that he’s fallen into the honey trap so to speak. He hums a gentle song to himself. A song of victory. 

He had always wanted a dog growing up but his mother would never allow it. They had had a few cats for a while but none of them really stuck. Whether it was by his hand or Jeremiah’s they always faced an untimely end. He was more of an exotic pet kind of person anyway. At the circus he was always good with the rarer creatures. The white tigers were his favorites. They seemed to innately understand him and he understood them. He wonders now, if Jeeves felt the same way about Bruce. An exotic wild animal capable of unknown destruction and savagery, that’s what Bruce was. A tiger that allows another creature to trim its nails. Primp and proper on the outside. Regal and poise in appearance and genius loci. A male ingenue if Jerome had to categorize him. The thought of corrupting him further filled Jerome with a profound sense of joy while simultaneously breaking his heart. Bruce possessed a rare duality in his nature, innocent and yet so innately broken. It was something that Jerome found interesting, annoying, entertaining and yet so very thrilling. To think that someone like Bruce had once beat him into bliss, now that was something to laugh about. He moans absentmindedly as he relives the sensation of jagged glass pressed against his throat. While stuck in his reverie he misses his turn. It isn’t until the driveway comes in to view that he realizes he had already made his decision without evening thinking about it. Quietly, he pulls the sleek vehicle behind the mansion, through the slender access road, only to pull into the garage of the pool house. 

“We’re gonna have so much fun Brucey.” Jerome laughs loudly.

Getting Bruce up to the second floor wasn’t as hard as he had thought. No, in actuality it was quite easy. Bruce weighed almost nothing. He had lost weight, Jerome thought to himself, as he lay the young man in the canopy bed. He was about as heavy as he had been when they first met. Jerome can almost feel the exhilaration again. It’s almost palpable to him as he touches Bruce’s wound.

He had never been taught how to treat wounds. Oftentimes, he left them and they healed on their own or for the more serious ones, he’d limp, hobble, crawl or wince so often and so intensely that eventually his mother would get annoyed and give him permission to go to the medical tent. She’d always make it worse after; retribution for his ‘bellyaching’ but for a few moments he got to pretend that the nurse was his real mom. That this mother loved him enough not to hurt but to heal him. As he got older, he realized just how painful that was. It hurt more than any bruise, slash, burn or blunt object ever could. When you realize that the look that you once thought was love is actually pity. That’s when it stung the most. But only for a little while. When something happens frequently, eventually, you stop feeling. He wasn’t bitter about it. He couldn’t blame her for not actually caring about him. After all, he wasn’t her kid and if he knew anything about people it was that they were motivated by self interest. If anything, looking back on it, it was just boring. A collection of boring interactions with a boring normal woman. 

He walks over to the imposing cherry wood bookcase before slamming his shoulder against the side closest to the door. Moby Dick no longer unlocked the secret compartment, now it hung over the edge of the hardwood slab like a passively suicidal person weighing the pros and cons of jumping off a cliff. The bookcase slid clunkily to the left revealing a secret room. It was, essentially, a storage unit for medical supplies. He had stopped wondering how Arcade had gotten his hands on anything. The guy was rich beyond and if there was anything that he could say about rich people it was that they always knew how to get things. 

He whistled to himself as he grabbed gauze and an assorted box of antiseptic wipes to clean Bruce’s wound. He smiled deeply at the idea of tying Bruce down and subjecting him to a variety of tortures. This time around they would get their time together. He sighed deeply as a wave of vigor came over him. 

“Ooooh, Brucey…” He sang as he re-entered the room. “Do you ever get bored?” He asked as he adjusted a tube of healing ointment to fit better amongst the pile. 

“I bet you do. Especially when I’m not around.” He snickered as he approached the canopy bed. He stopped dead in his tracks as he finally registered that the bed was empty. He turned just in time for Bruce’s fist to dust his chin. Suddenly, soft hands are on his chest and he surrenders as Bruce pushes him to the ground. He can’t help the laughter that erupts from his chest as Bruce takes another swipe at him. His fists land and the sound of skin against skin creates a tempo under the sound of Jerome’s laughter. Bruce’s blows are softer and less rigorous than they once were. 

“Is that the best you’ve got?” Jerome grins deeply as a shock of exhilaration hits him. He feels like a live wire, Bruce is just the tight rope walking squirrel. Maybe today’s the day. 

With little effort he knocks Bruce over and pins him down. Bruce tries to knee him in the groin but he’s not quick enough. Jerome uses his strength to pin the smaller male’s legs down. Bruce howls and screams out as if someone will hear him and it adds to Jerome’s excitement. 

“Stop yelling!” Jerome exclaims with a wide smile as he tries to stifle his laughter. He brings one of his hands up to cover Bruce’s mouth. “Shhh!” Bruce bites down on the corner of his hand causing him to hum in pain. He pulls his hand away as if scorned. Bruce used that to his advantage, head butting the redhead with so much force that his eyes roll back into his skull, the wig that had been holding on for dear life finally flies off as his head pulls to the side. He shoves the offending male off and makes a dash for the door as quickly as he can. His head spins from fatigue and nausea. Before he had a chance to pass the armoire Jerome grabbed his ankle and yanked him down. His face collides with the floor, leaving him dizzy and spluttering. He can feel the older man hovering over his body, just before he’s whirled around by his shoulder. He’s incredibly tired but he refuses to give up the fight. He flails windedly. 

“Will you stop? You’ll pop your stitches!” Jerome says as he bats away Bruce’s flailing fists before pinning him again. To his chagrin Bruce began to scream again. 

“I’m trying to help you!” He exclaimed as he covered Bruce’s mouth again. “Just-let me help you!” He yells in Bruce’s face inadvertently. He didn’t mean to yell at him but it got the job done. Bruce stared up at him with angry eyes before his features relaxed into a look of surprise. 

“I’m going to move my hand. Do. Not. Scream.” Jerome emphasized with a steady glare. He moved his hand away slowly. He was surprised when Bruce remained quiet. He stared up at him in shock. 

“Surprised to see me?” Jerome smiles venomously. To his utter and complete surprise, Bruce smiled at him. Jerome had seen people smile at each other before and on occasion he’d had people smile at him but when Bruce smiled at him...it was different. This time, he felt like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. To say he had no idea what to do would be an understatement. He moved his arms to Bruce’s sides until they were barely touching. They stared at each other for a long time. He wanted to say something foul to throw the younger man off but no words came to mind. If that wasn’t confusing enough for him, his enemy, the kid that he’d tried to kill on multiple occasions smiling at him, he was left totally baffled when Bruce reached up, arms outstretched and enveloped him in a hug. 

At first, he tried to move away. He felt the need to get away from this soft gesture, away from Bruce, away from the lump forming in his throat and far away from the pain forming in his chest. Then he relaxed involuntarily. Bruce was lukewarm, still damp from the storm, he smelled of rain and sandalwood but he was soft, his embrace was gentle and bittersweet. Without meaning to, Jerome hugs him back, he laces his hands under Bruce’s back and draws him in. It feels nice, if he’s honest with himself. It’s nice but painful in a way that makes him feel something. An internal spark, something that should have died. Something that his mother drowned, something that Jeremiah betrayed. It’s a sad beaten lump of something that’s been rotting away. He hates it. It’s the only type of pain he has no stomach for. He pulled Bruce up until he was on his feet and helped him to the edge of the bed. 

“So now you’re trying to give me indigestion? That’s a poor plan if I ever saw one.” Jerome says awkwardly. He’s flustered and unfocussed. He can’t afford to be either of those things right now. Not here. Not ever. 

He retrieves the medical supplies from the dark floor silently. 

“I called you and you didn’t come. I looked everywhere but you weren’t there. How did we get here?” Bruce asks and there is a layer of betrayal under his cool tone. 

“Well, you ran from me for starters. Then you passed out on me. I had to carry you up two flights of stairs.” Jerome said mechanically. Bruce furrowed his eyebrows as if he didn’t understand. “Don’t think this makes us buddies by the way.” He said as he threw the supplies onto the bed beside Bruce before pushing him down onto the mattress by his sternum and straddling his waist. “Take your shirt off.” 

Bruce’s eyes widened to the size of saucers and his arms went instinctively to shield his chest. Jerome laughs heartily before letting out a deep relaxing sigh. Maybe his efforts hadn’t been wasted. 

Alfred paced along the line of yellow police tape. He clutched at Bruce’s phone as if wishing would somehow bring him back. He knew something was wrong. For weeks he’d been filled with a nervous anxiety that he couldn’t soothe with cleaning. In his gut he had known something was off but in an attempt to give his young master the space he thought he needed to work through his internal turmoil this catastrophe had occurred. Unfortunately, he’d missed the signs. He wonders now, if Bruce had gone of his own volition. He didn’t leave a note this time, he didn’t call. He promised. Alfred thinks. Bruce promised he’d never leave for good not without telling Alfred. Not without a back up plan. 

In the back of Alfred’s mind he wonders if Bruce will find a way back this time, as he had so many times before or if this will be the day Alfred has been dreading for years. The day he won’t return from. His eyes prickle at the thought. That thought alone makes his chest unbearably tight. When you lose a friend, a good friend, the grief is almost unbreachable but not completely insurmountable. When you lose a child… that is one of the greatest tragedies that anyone can be faced with. It’s an unconquerable dolor that Alfred always prayed he’d never face. He won’t give up hope. He’ll find Bruce, no matter what it takes. He feels an iron-clad conviction take hold of him and a resolve forms. 

The red and blue flashing lights of police cars paint his solemn face as he stares around hopefully. Through the sporadic clumping of officers he can make out the dark brim of Bullock’s hat. Bullock lifts the tape to join him on the other side. He turned away from the scene to stare at the dark road behind them. Alfred followed his gaze and for a moment they both stared at the dark red brick wall at the end of the street. The gigantic smiley face was a hideous marker. It’s grin was out of proportion, too wide for the cartoony eyes just above it’s image. It almost looked as though it was mocking them. Bullock sighs deeply before turning to Alfred. 

“So, can you take me through what happened? Why was the kid here?” Bullock asks and there is a layer of accusation in his tone that makes Alfred feel angry and judged. 

“Your guess is as good as mine, isn’t it?” Alfred said as he set his jaw. Bruce was supposed to be with Selena. It wasn’t until Ms. Kyle had called that Alfred became aware of the situation. But Alfred couldn’t tell Bullock that. Not without knowing what the officers had found. He was well aware that anything he said could implicate Bruce in some kind of way. While Bullock had been helpful to them in the past he didn’t think that he would put Bruce’s wellbeing and safety above the law. Bullock took a deep sigh in frustration. 

“I have something to tell you but you gotta promise you’ll stay calm.” Bullock phrases it like a demand but his voice or more questioning. Alfred nods expectantly but internal he’s holding his breath. 

“We found a blood trail in the old paper mill.” Bullock stated as he reached out to touch Alfred’s shoulder. Alfred’s lip quivers against his better judgement. He’s having trouble controlling his emotions and his mind is moving a mile a minute. He releases the breath he’s holding and tries to steady himself. “It’s not a lot of blood but...it looks like someone was injured. We found shells near the-” 

“Someone get EMS!” A police officer yelled over the walkie talkie. “We have an injured Arkham inmate here, white, approximately 6 foot 5, multiple gunshot wounds. We need an ambulance immediately!” 

“Copy that!” Someone else spoke just as sirens began to break the silence in the distance. Alfred and Bullock shared a look. 

“Uni, this is detective Bullock. Where are you?” Bullock said as he held the tape for Alfred to step under. 

“We’re on the production floor in the paper mill, sir. Sir, it’s bad! I don’t know how much longer-” The female cop stated. 

“He’s going into shock!” Another officer yelled in the background before the line went silent. 

“We’re on our way.” Bullock responded before making a dash for the paper mill, Alfred in tow.


	8. You're crazy but maybe I like it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce gets to spend some time with Jerome. Madness ensues.

Bruce was fuming with rage. He was positively shaking with anger as Jerome held a scalpel to his throat. He held the edge of the bandage under his arm as the redhead brought the bandage around his naked chest. He wanted to cover himself up. He wanted to sleep. He wanted a lot of things but Jerome refused to give him either of those things. Bruce sighed deeply in an attempt to quell the building rage inside him and the pulsating headache that had formed. His eyes rolled closed as he was pulled in by the pure darkness behind his eyelids. 

He had been awake for what felt like years. He had watched as the older youth popped his makeshift stitches. He had asked for aspirin to ease the headache and perhaps soothe the pain as the older male sprayed his wound with antiseptic. The pain itself wasn’t horrible but the migraine was near unbearable. Jerome had refused and he was too weak to get them on his own. He had briefly lost consciousness during the re-stitching. Luckily after that Jerome conceded. 

Bruce, seizing his only opportunity for escape, attempted to kick and punch the latter male as he retrieved the medicine. His tirade was unsuccessful unfortunately and resulted in Jerome sitting in his lap, his legs pinned down by the weight of the other. 

So, there he was, almost completely naked, save for his boxers, with his kidnapper in his lap wrapping his wound as gently as...though Bruce is loath to admit it, Alfred would. He was confused to say the least. The room that they inhabited wasn’t in the manor, the decor was different, too gothic and yet it bore a similar antiquity which left him wondering about the encounter. Perhaps, this was no figment of his imagination.

He wonders if this has all been some sort of game. Another interaction that Jerome had set up to get to him. He’s been waiting for the redhead’s followers to reveal themselves. He imagined them popping out from the armoire and under the bed. In his mind’s eye, he can see them bursting through the door and laughing at him for ever believing Jerome was actually dead. Bruce Wayne, the boy billionaire, naked, too weak to fight. Vulnerable to them and the whims of their master. He prays it's all a dream. One he’ll wake up from in the morning with Alfred waiting for him in the kitchen. 

“No, no, no!” Jerome said as he tapped Bruce’s chin with the edge of the blade before bringing it closer to the young man’s throat. “Don’t you dare close your eyes on me.” He warned as he continued. Bruce glared daggers at him. If his thoughts weren’t in disarray he was sure he could find some means of escape but at that very moment, he couldn’t think of anything. 

The room had an icy chill that caused goose bumps to erupt up his arms and legs. The floor was no exception, the hardwood held no warmth for his bare feet and though he tried, he was unable to conceal the effects of the temperature. He shook every now and again involuntarily. Which Jerome didn’t seem to notice. He seemed focused on his task, wrapping the bandage around Bruce one last time before adjusting the clasp to hold his work. He smiled down at his efforts, lost in thought. In the dim lighting his pupils were dark pools and the faint glimmers of light coming from the antiquated chandelier above cast a pearlesque glow on his pallid skin. 

“So, you kidnapped me again?” Bruce said with an uncontrollable slur. He rested his head against the cool pillar of the bed frame as he tried to think straight. He was almost sure he had a concussion.

“Kidnapped is such an ugly word, Bruce. I don’t like it.” Jerome said as he pulled out a clear roll of what Bruce assumed was plastic. 

“Are you real?” Bruce asked as he blinked rapidly to alleviate the thin fuzz that distorted his vision. “How did I get here?” 

“What kind of question is that? Are you real? Lift your arms.” Jerome grumbled as he unrolled the waterproof seal for Bruce’s bandages. Bruce grimaced at him before holding his arms out away from his body. He wrapped it around Bruce’s back gently before bringing one edge of the material over his heart, securing it to the bandages and then the other quarter length was placed on top. He whistled at his miraculous work, briefly considering a career in the rehabilitative arts. 

“I’m just as real as you are.” Jerome said as he raised his eyebrows. “I told you how you got here. You’re welcome by the way.”

Bruce stared up at him somberly as he swayed from side to side. Was he moving or was Jerome? He didn’t know. He was so very tired. The weight in his lap made him feel dizzy and warm. The fingertips that grazed him lightly every now and again made him thirst for something he couldn’t describe or explain. He realizes that this is perhaps the closest they have ever been to each other. 

“I don’t want to dance with you.” Bruce grumbled as he leaned forward. His head connects, inadvertently, with Jerome’s chest. If he’s still he can feel Jerome’s heart beat against the side of his skull. It’s comforting and curious in a morbid sort of way. To think that his mind conjured a phantom with a heartbeat. It’s ironic. With a chuckle, Jerome draws him closer and strokes the back of his head. Bruce isn’t moved by the gesture. He can feel the ebb of sarcasm behind it. It doesn’t have the meaning he wants it to. The gesture lacks real concern. It is free from any sincere caring. He understands, even in that moment, that he is not dealing with a normal person. Even still, he can’t help the automatic need that overwhelms him in response to the gesture. He pulls away automatically, refusing to allow himself to be lulled by the redhead’s fraudulent actions. Jerome hadn’t released his slight hold on the scalpel and with the same ease that was present in his caress, he brought the instrument back to Bruce’s throat. 

“ As I was saying, I saved you. I was even kind enough to bring along your security blanket.” Jerome said, ignoring Bruce’s incoherence, as he gestured towards something near the bed. Something that Bruce couldn’t see from his position. His heart nearly exploded with panic. 

“Alfred!” He yelled as he leaned as far back as he could to see what lay just out of his line of vision. He hadn’t noticed Jerome’s hand on his back before he decided to lay down but he noticed Jerome’s weight as it settled painfully on top of him, causing the scalpel to pierce his skin. Jerome laughed in frustration as he moved the scalpel and pressed his finger into the bleeding wound. Bruce would not cease his motions. He turned violently until he was atop the red head, pressing his palm into Jerome’s face to peer over the side of the bed at what he believed was Alfred’s body only to find the light outline of a distorted, puffy square. He stopped immediately, surprised by what he found. That was all the time Jerome needed to roll him off. 

Suddenly, Jerome’s hands were wrapped around his throat, constricting his air flow. His angry face was a pallid blurry shape above Bruce’s. He wouldn’t give in to the fear that was beginning to build. He scratched at his hands, fighting desperately for air. The fear that Alfred was gone. The fear that he would never go back home. He stopped his efforts to change direction, reaching up to press his thumbs into Jerome’s eyes. He shifted his legs quickly, kneeing Jerome in the crouch. Jerome grunted loudly and throatily as he tilted forward, his hands releasing Bruce’s throat to cradle his wounded manhood. Bruce gasped for air greedily, he actively ignored the bizarre heat welling in his stomach as the headache began to abate. He could taste Jerome’s cologne in his mouth, it mixed with the saltiness of his sweat. He tried to shove the red head off but he had exerted all of his strength in an attempt to find what he believed to be Alfred’s body. 

“What does Jeeves have over you?!” Jerome exclaimed as he inadvertently brushed by Bruce’s ear to lay beside him. He doesn’t notice the slight tremor that runs through the body beneath him. He groans from fatigue and annoyance as he clutches his nethers. “I think you’ve got it bad for the help.” He says with an unusual amount of antipathy. 

“Don’t talk about him like that.” Bruce said angrily as he massaged the cut on his throat. It feels elongated under his fingertips, another half to the unfinished smile Jerome started years ago. He drew his fingertips back, examining the bright red smudge of his own blood. For a few moments he felt wide awake and totally aware. “You cut me.” 

“Yes.” Jerome said nonchalantly as he lifted himself up on his elbows. He stared at Bruce as though he was trying to come to a decision. A decision that was unknown to the younger male. 

“I think…” Bruce sighed deeply as he reached over to touch Jerome’s face with his blood stained fingertips. The redhead moved away from him with a nervous chuckle but that didn’t stop the young man from trying. “You’re jealous.” They stared at each other for a long time. Bruce with his hand outstretched, naked save for his boxers and Jerome planking it on the very edge of the bed, wielding a scalpel protectively. 

“I swear you are the weirdest kid I have ever met.” Jerome said as his features relaxed into a smile. 

“It’s easier for me.” Bruce said absentmindedly. “To believe that this is all some game that you’ve put together. It's elaborate and crazy. You're signature.” He asked as his hand fell into the empty space between them. His body buzzed with a chill that he had never felt before. It was relaxing and frightening. He fought his hardest to stay awake. He found himself searching Jerome’s eyes. In his dreams they were always darker. Dark like deep pits, black holes that went on forever, dragging him down. When he stared at him now, they seemed greener, like clovers. One petal away from luck. 

“I think about you. All of the time.” Bruce confided. It was a dream, he was sure. All of it. Perhaps, it was the last dream he would ever have. 

“What you did before we met. What life was like for you in Arkham. Why do you hate your brother so much? Why did he abandon you? What’s your favorite color? I think of other things too.” Bruce said as he licked his chapped lips absentmindedly. It’s too late for answers. He knows that but it doesn’t stop the curiosity that he has. His mind can’t answer them. The only person he can have this conversation with is dead. He believes this and so he doesn’t wait for a reply. 

“What are you-” Jerome started as he stared in disbelief. 

“Why did you always wear gloves? Why didn’t you wear them when you touched me? Why did you kill all of those people when it could have been more satisfying to let the law handle their punishment. Did you have any friends? Has anyone ever been nice to you. I think about the diner and the hall of mirrors almost every day. I wish I could stop but I can’t. I wonder what things would have been like if your life had been different.” Bruce continued as his eyes shut again. He stroked the soft cold bed sheet, focusing his attention on how it felt under his touch. 

“I wonder if anyone ever loved you. If anyone ever tried to save you before that night in the diner. If you’ve been held like you’re worth a damn. I wonder so many things and they are all driving me up the wall. More than anything else, I wonder if you knew.” Bruce trails off as he follows the darkness behind his lids into a reassuring state of unconsciousness. 

“Oh boy, you really have lost it, Brucey.” Jerome laughed loudly as he slapped Bruce's face with his free hand. “I left a mark ooooooorrrrrr…..” He grinned as Bruce groaned in pain. Bruce closed and opened his eyes in shock. 

“Did you just...did you just slap me?” Bruce asked as he gritted his teeth in irritation. 

“Yep, you are concussed.” Jerome said as he rolled off the side of the bed before scrambling to his feet. “If I didn’t know any better, Brucey, I would say you’re obsessed with me. But really, who could blame you? I am...sort of a big deal.” Jerome said with a flourish as he turned to the side. 

Bruce groaned loudly. He could do with dying but what he wasn’t prepared for was limbo with the ghost of Jerome Valeska. He had forgotten just how annoying the older male was. If this was his eternal resting place he would prefer to have it to himself. He’d hoped by saying what he felt he needed to the ghost of the ex-maniax member would disappear but that didn’t happen. 

“What do you want from me?” Bruce bristled as he turned to look at the ceiling. He closed his eyes again, fading into sleep. It was peaceful for a time. Darkness wrapped around him like a cloak and he allowed himself to fall into its embrace. In the background he could hear running water. He sighed as warmth surrounded him. He remembers the time his family went to the thermal springs in Switzerland. He can’t imagine anything more beautiful than the indoor pools. The ice blue water, the crisp ivory interior and the smell of the air. He missed the bubble beds that he’d taken for granted as a child. He had been there so many times that it felt commonplace for him but now he longed for those days. He missed playing Marco Polo with his mother. He missed his father’s attempts to teach him new swimming techniques. He missed the skiing slopes and the sound of his parents' laughter. 

He dreamt he was there again, people congregating along the edges of the giant communal pool, colorful beach balls floating along the top of the water. In his dream, he was alone near a spout. He searched the vast space for his parents but he didn’t see them. Someone swam up to him, a pallid shape springing up from the frothing water, he noticed the telltale freckles and almost grimaced. Even in his dreams, Jerome refused to give him a moment’s peace. His head finally comes to the surface of the gently jostling waves.

“What did you mean?” He asks as he edges a bit closer to the young man who steps back. 

“I’m in my happy place. Please go away.” Bruce exclaimed as he looked passed the freckled lunatic before him. He swore he saw someone familiar on the other edge of the pool. His eyes searched the clusters of people but he doesn’t find the person he’s looking for. 

“My favorite color is black. Today anyway.” Jerome says with a light chuckle as he stares at Bruce's hair.

“Good to know. Please leave.” Bruce said before turning away. He waded through the water, moving beach balls as they passed, as he searched. He knew what he saw. The faint outline of a familiar figure. The salt and pepper color of his father’s hair. 

“Sometimes, you just want to experience something new, you know?” Jerome said as he took Bruce’s place under the spout. Water poured down over his head, sliding down his face, dripping past his chin to cascade down his square freckled shoulders. Bruce doesn’t want to look but he does. His hair color deepens when wet. Bruce mused. Crimson like blood. Jerome smiles as the water enveloped him. Bruce feels his mouth dry out. 

“Arkham was a day at the park.” Jerome says as he splashes water under his armpits and rubs it into his chest like he’s taking a bath. Bruce turns away in embarrassment. To his surprise no one was watching the freckled redhead’s display. No one was watching but him. 

“Met a LOT of my horribles there. It was -mwah- molto bene!” The redhead said with a fake Italian accent before dunking himself underwater. Bruce can’t tell if he’s being serious or sarcastic. He doesn’t know how to take this admittal. He wades closer as he waits for Jerome to resurface. 

“I bet you still believe in the boogeyman too. You ask some boring questions, Bruce.” Jerome said as he surfaced behind Bruce. Bruce turned quickly to face the predator circling him. 

“Excuse me, have you seen a little boy? He has dark hair…” A blonde woman spoke gently to a group of young tourists. Bruce turned towards the sound of a familiar voice. From across the pool, he spotted a slender blonde woman in a pale yellow swimsuit. He knew who she was instantly, without seeing her face. A lump of cotton formed in his throat as he moved closer to her.

“Also, I’m an ‘insane’, “ Jerome said, emphasizing ‘insane’ with air quotations. He grabbed Bruce by the shoulder and dragged him closer until his chest was pressed against Bruce’s back. 

“Criminal. Who in their right mind would be nice to someone like me?” He spat out the word nice as if it were poisonous. He finished his sentence in a hushed whisper against Bruce’s ear. Bruce stopped moving and allowed the ginger to have his moment. He watched his mother look around for him, she moved swiftly from one side of the pool to the other frantically looking for him. He waved from his place in Jerome’s grasp. Even with all of his actions she couldn’t see him. He opened his mouth to call out to her but as he went to form the syllables, a goldfish enveloped in viscous fluid launched out of the confines of his jaws, escaping into the pool. He stared wide-eyed at the little fish as it swam away. Jerome chuckled against his ear. 

“Except for you that is.” Jerome hummed. “It really makes me wonder just how sane you are?” He laughs again and this time Bruce truly feels as if he’s being held prisoner. Martha calls his name and it pulls at his heart strings in a painful way. He tried to tell her that he was right there. In front of her. If only she could see him. But, as he opened his mouth another tiny goldfish escaped. It swam away quickly, towards his mother, towards the sunlit windows and the smell that he only knows as nostalgia. 

“Also, I’m as real as you. Now, hold your breath.” Jerome warns and Bruce turns to face him quickly not exactly sure what the latter meant by the statement. As he turns water showers down upon him, quick and unending. He gasps for air and flails as he’s suffocated. When he opens his eyes he finds himself in a porcelain clawfoot tub, Jerome smiling down at him with a pitcher in his hand, one arm wrapped around Bruce’s chest. Plumes of steam swirled above the hot water. He’s mortified by the sight of his own bare thighs framed by the legs of another. He pulled away quickly, gripping the edge of the tub to lift himself up but he fell back down as his strength waned. 

“You’re too weak.” Jerome sighed in disappointment as he leaned against the back of the tub. “Do you want to move to the other end?” He asked delicately as he dropped the pitcher. Bruce shoved his arm away and began to crawl through the water, eager to get out and away from the maniac that had assisted him. He stopped mid crawl as he felt the light touch of fingertips against the sensitive scars on his inner thighs. His face turned beet red as he realized that he was no longer in his boxers and to make matters worse he was bent over naked in front of an unpredictable, menacing older man. He gulped audibly as the shame and embarrassment of it all settled around him. He peered back, unable to stop himself. Though he was sure Jerome couldn’t feel shame, he wanted to believe that second hand shame and interpersonal courtesy was not out of his grasp. Jerome was staring at the small healed cuts between his thighs, his self-imposed injuries. He wished that the bathtub would slow him whole. Just to save him from this strange and inappropriate interaction. But to no avail. Jerome laughed loudly before doing the unthinkable. With one wet hand, he swatted Bruce across the backside, causing an audible reaction that made the teenager cling to the edge of the tub in an effort to escape. 

Jerome would have none of it. He gripped Bruce just under his arms, under the bandaging and moved him sideways to the other side of the tub. Bruce squirmed as Jerome's member settled on the nape of his lower back. He couldn't get any redder if he tried.

Jerome continued to laugh as Bruce squirmed in his arms. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes as Bruce glared at him, half underwater, half above. He lifted himself until he was sitting down on the other side. He crossed his legs and placed his hands over his genitals as Jerome gave in to a loud fit of furtive laughter. He couldn’t help the blush that rose over his cheeks as he tried to conceal himself and avoided eye contact with the maniac sitting across from him. This had to be one of the most embarrassing situations he had ever found himself in. 

“That was more of you than I ever thought I would see.” Jerome coughed as he tried to suppress the urge to laugh. “Oh, you do not disappoint.” He cradled his side as he continued. 

“Nice to see you’re awake, Pale Peach.” Jerome gasped as he caught his breath. “Who would have figured? Bruce Wayne, the boy with everything, a cutter.” 

“I hate you.” Bruce said as he raised his legs up, covering his face with his bony knee caps. “Just kill me and get it over with.” 

“Yeah, me too.” Jerome scoffed playful as he crept closer to Bruce. A pregnant silence fell between them. 

“Bruce, look at me.” Jerome said as he looked down at Bruce’s thick inky black head of hair. Bruce grumbled something as he curled into a ball with an air of defeat. Jerome sucked his teeth before grabbing Bruce’s chin and forcefully lifting his head. Angry moss green eyes met intense viridian green. 

“Never, ever, be ashamed of how you look.” Jerome said angrily with an intense conviction that both confused and scared Bruce. Bruce's anger dissipated, converted into befuddlement. Jerome released him to move back to the other side of the tub. He scoffed again before shaking his head as if he was trying to figure something out. “If I do say so myself, I’ve been a pretty good host.” He stretched, getting comfortable in the cooling water. For the first time, Bruce’s eyes were drawn to his abdomen. In reality, naked Jerome did not look how Bruce had imagined. Soap bubbles concealed his manhood but it did nothing for the trail of crimson hair that drew a line from under his belly button down, down into the clear water. He was more muscular than Bruce had thought. His stomach was defined by the indentations of his abs and his arms were larger than his clothing indicated. He was also riddled with scars. There was a dark red linear scar across his chest, a small healed mark just above his stomach.. 

“It’s a birthmark.” Jerome said as he patted the mark with a smile. “Had it since I was a kid. I would say you know how that is, but those aren’t birthmarks.” Bruce turned away quickly as his red face deepened in color. 

“Should have figured you were shy.” Jerome sighed as he put his arms behind his head and closed his eyes. “Listen, I’m not gonna hurt cha.” 

“You kidnapped me just to bathe with me?” Bruce said sarcastically, his head nestled between his knees, his arms wrapped around his legs protectively. 

“Hmm, nope.” Jerome said as he began to hum. “But you aren’t shivering like a wet cat anymore.” Bruce was surprised at his answer. He had expected something more sinister, more...insane. This had to be a dream. It just had to be. 

“You are my hostage, though, I don’t get it. You just keep offering yourself up to me.” Jerome said in astonishment. “On a silver platter. You’re a sheep that just can’t stay away from the wolves.” He finished with a huff. 

“I didn’t ask you to kidnap me!” Bruce exclaimed in anger, throwing his arms down, causing water to splash in Jerome’s direction. 

“Yeah, well, I owed you a favor didn’t I.” Jerome said as he cracked one eye open. “Something tells me you didn’t want to get caught by your butler. Which leads me to ask: What are you hiding?” 

“This is all your fault.” Bruce said as he shook his head. “If I wake up from this, I’m going to tell Alfred everything. About you, about the Arkham robbery, everything. I’ve clearly lost my mind. Arguing with my imagination.” 

“Wait, what?” Jerome said, both eyes open and wide with excitement. Bruce wasn’t making any sense and he was starting to believe that the concussion was worse than he thought. “What about the Arkham robbery?” Bruce looked at him with a sad expression, he peered down at his own knees before shaking his head. 

“I didn’t mean to. I accept responsibility for my actions but,”

“Wait,” Jerome started with a slight chuckle as he raised one finger in the air. “What are you telling me, Brucey?” 

“Maybe it was me...and not you.” Bruce said in a hushed tone before biting his bottom lip as regret took hold of him. “Maybe this is all in my head. I just...I don’t know anymore.” 

“Spit it out, kid!” Jerome said as adrenaline rushed through his system. 

“It was me! I stole from Arkham.” Bruce yelled in exasperation. 

“It is sick and twisted and I don’t fully understand why I did it. I don’t even remember doing it. I was dreaming when it happened, but,” Bruce hit his head on his knees as the words continued to tumble out of his mouth. 

“I can’t take it back now.” He said in futility. “I’m so tired. I see you everywhere, in my dreams, in the real world.” He continued, as the water jostled from his actions, until he could feel his skin slapping painfully against his knees. Jerome’s fingers were on his chin again, lifting his head until they were eye level. 

“Why would you...How did you…” Jerome started but he was at a complete loss for words. 

“I would have saved you. You didn’t even need to ask.” Bruce surrendered with watery eyes. He was emotionally exhausted, from the charade he’d been playing and the insomnia. It was his turn to do something unexpected. He reached forward with both hands, lacing his fingers in Jerome’s crimson hair, drawing him closer until their lips met. It wasn’t like any kiss Bruce had had before. With Selina the kisses were soft and lustful, ripe with hormonal teenage zeal. The kiss he shared now with Jerome was electrifying, scintillating in a way that he found profoundly unusual. He hadn’t anticipated the hypervigilance that it imbued. 

Jerome doesn’t kiss him back, he remains still, his lips pursed and every bone under the sculpting of his muscles is set like stone. Kisses are supposed to feel good, Bruce thinks, but for some reason this kiss feels unrequited. It leaves him feeling vulnerable and as a result he attempts to pull away. Suddenly, Jerome kisses him back. It isn’t delicate. It’s nothing like what Bruce has grown accustomed to. He kisses with vigor and there is only a moment that passes before he rolls his tongue across Bruce’s lips. Without thought, Bruce allows him in. There is a warm tongue exploring the caverns of his mouth and he isn’t sure what to do. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. He’s only french kissed once and he wasn’t sober for it. Tentatively, he reaches out to taste it, as if he doesn’t already. The faintest hints of burnt caramel, sweet and rich coat the cavern of his mouth and it fills him with a dark sense of vigor. It starts in his stomach, teased by the fingertips that rove his body and make a home out of the indentations of his hips. His ears are ringing and he feels light headed as the kiss transforms from something tapid to something scolding with intensity. Jerome breathes into him as he pulls away, one hand has found its way into Bruce’s hair and the other is still on his hip, holding him in place. Bruce inhales, taking his breath deep into his lungs. The gaze they share is heated. Jerome’s eyes were dark, inky black like Bruce’s hair, and Bruce was trying, with much difficulty to collect his thoughts. It’s funny sometimes how the body can betray us. His eyes were coated in the sticky film of lust. Jerome presses his fingertips into the corner’s of Bruce’s lips as he watches him, shaking with an unseen but anticipated emotion. Bruce watches him. This may be the same man but this is a new face, a new expression, a new experience that they now share. With some trepidation Bruce spreads his lips, ignorant to the viscosity of his own saliva. Jerome doesn’t miss it, as a stream of saliva breaks when Bruce reveals his tongue. There is something erotic about it. It’s enticing, the way Bruce opens his mouth. Jerome can’t help himself. He pushes his thumb between Bruce’s parted lips and revels in the feeling of the younger man’s quivering tongue. He can imagine what it is and the thought makes him feel euphoric. He moans gently from the sensation of this kind of power. 

Bruce’s knees are delicate and soft, they blend in with the lower part of Jerome’s abdomen until he can’t tell where Bruce ends and he begins. Only their heartbeats separate them. The quick rhythmic pitter patter like children’s feet, running, chasing after each other, contained inside him. Inside them. He pats Bruce’s hair gently as he stared down into the younger male’s eyes. 

It’s been a day full of new sensations and experiences for Jerome. He had revelled in each one but this one had to be the best if he was asked to judge. He licked his lips quickly. 

“ Why would you do something like that?” Jerome asked intently as he loomed over Bruce, his hands on the other’s knees, his chin framed by the little space between them. 

Bruce doesn’t know what to say. He had no motive for kissing Jerome. There was no incentive for him to do so, just the shallow pull he felt behind his naval and the low vibration of energy that he felt when they were touching. He’s never felt the inclination to kiss another man. He doesn’t find Jerome attractive in the way that he finds Selina attractive but he does feel something. It’s an inexplicable desire. He’s so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he doesn’t catch the storm clouds rolling in. He misses the darkness looming in the redhead’s eyes. He doesn’t catch on until there is a hand wrapped firmly around his throat. 

“You’re more messed up then I thought.” Jerome whispers dangerously against Bruce’s ear before letting go of a shaky exhale he’d been holding in for too long. He places a ghost kiss on Bruce’s temple before he releases him. He stands up with an air of finality, exiting the bathtub. 

“Next, you’ll tell me you’re in love with me.” Jerome scoffs as he wraps a towel around his waist to hide his manhood, the very thing Bruce had tried to avoid looking about; he can’t stop his eyes from wandering. He can’t stop his mind from reliving the feeling of it pressed against his lower back as he lay against the older man in the tub. It’s veiny in a way that reminds him of greek art but Jerome is endowed in a way that those paintings and sculptures were not.

“If I’m fucked up what does that make you?” Bruce retorted as he rubbed his throat. “You reciprocated.” He could feel the change in the air instantly as his words fell on Jerome’s ear. He watched as the ginger’s shoulders tensed and his back straightened. 

“Not as fucked up as you.” Jerome spat weakly as he grabbed the other towel and threw it on the mat. “Dry off.” He glared at Bruce for a while before stalking out of the bathroom. 

Once he was out of the room, Jerome took a deep breath. The bedroom was still cold, unchanged by the faint glimmers of dawn cascading in through the window. It caused goosebumps to erupt over his skin. He removed his towel and used it to dry his hair. He wasn’t sure what had gotten into the kid. For Bruce Wayne to kiss him of all people something had to be wrong. He thinks about the feeling of Bruce’s soft lips against his as he scratches his scalp with the towel mercilessly. He enjoyed it and that bothers him immensely. When he’d been brought back the first time all he’d wanted to do was kill Bruce but that dream had lost its potency this time around. 

He smiled deeply to himself as warmth swelled up from under his navel. He was alive with a new emotion now. Something fiery and sensual but abnormal to him. With a swirl, he let his body fall to the bed spread. He placed one hand on his chest as he closed his eyes. 

In Arkham, one must have a good imagination to keep from losing one's mind completely. Jerome had never had a problem with his imagination. Not until after the hall of mirrors. If only Bruce knew what fantasies he was fueling. What fantasies he'd been fueling for years.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for giving this story a look over you guys. I appreciate you as a readership. If there is anything you want to know about this story (besides the ending ;)) Don't hesitate to comment or reach out to me.


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